


Familiar Pain

by plain_jane08 (awolfling)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 05:10:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awolfling/pseuds/plain_jane08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has Irritable Bowel Syndrome, set after The Great Game.</p><p>John was probably the first person Sherlock regretted turning down. John was different to the heaving masses of society... It sparked a small glimmer of hope in Sherlock’s chest that maybe John was different. If he could accept Sherlock for all his unusualness then maybe he could accept the part that Sherlock kept hidden from everyone. Maybe John would be the first person to offer Sherlock comfort rather than scorn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Sherlock woke up that morning he was granted a few short minutes of painlessness before his stomach started cramping. The was no warning before it happened, just a sudden sharp ache low in his stomach, like someone had slashed him open with a knife and reached in to grab and twist his intestines. He was immediately up and out of bed, rushing to the bathroom with that familiar panic of _‘Oh god I hope I make it in time’_ driving him. As he emptied his bowels the pain became nearly unbearable, his vision blurred and not for the first time he wondered if he’d pass out sitting on the toilet. The rest of his thoughts were a jumble, gone hazy with pain.  
  
Sherlock hated his body. Not in an aesthetic sense, he was perfectly content with what he looked like and generally felt his appearance was neither here nor there, but that dressing in a certain way elicited positive responses from people. Sherlock hated his body because of how it worked, or did not work, as was the case. The medical term for it was ‘Irritable Bowel Syndrome’ and how Sherlock absolutely despised that term. He hated how non-specific it was, a catchall phrase under which a multitude of symptoms fell, some of them contradictory. It was a term used when every other illness had been ruled out and medical science no longer had proper answers. It infuriated him how inconsistent it was; one day certain foods would be fine to eat and on another day would cause him agony. Sherlock also hated it for the connotations; to so many IBS just meant having ‘a bit of a funny tummy, every now and then’ and ‘what is there to complain about? Everyone got diarrhoea and/or constipation once in a while.’ Far too many medical professionals saw it as a psychosomatic illness and perhaps if he could just ‘buck up’ and gain a little more emotional fortitude he’d be able to control his bowels better. Never mind that the top gastroenterologists were now fairly certain that IBS was caused by a miscommunication between the gastrointestinal tract and the brain causing a hypersensitivity in the bowels, most doctors still hung onto their stupid little outdated beliefs because it is so much easier to fob their patients off onto a psychologist than deal with an illness that, in all fairness, was very difficult to treat.  
  
Above all this, the blind doctors, the misinformed public, the lack of understanding, what Sherlock found the hardest to deal with was how completely out of control his body was. Normal bodies were fairly easy to predict, but Sherlock’s betrayed him at every turn. There was no knowing when he was going to be blinded by pain or when he’d have to make a quick dash to the loo. He couldn’t tell when eating this or that was going to cause him agony, whether not eating was going to cause him more, because hunger wasn’t just hunger, it also meant pain. Worse than the pain and indignity was how it impeded his ability to think. Sherlock couldn’t make his quick-fire deductions when his mind was clouded with pain and panic. There was medicine he could take, did take when it got bad; painkillers and Imodium, but they only dulled the pain and clouded his mind with chemicals.  
  
Sherlock didn’t talk about his illness with anyone beyond visiting his GP to renew his prescription (he’d finally found a doctor that would at least keep his judgements to himself and provide Sherlock with the necessary medication) and to tell Mycroft to piss off about it. Mycroft was the very embodiment of condescension and antipathy when it came to Sherlock’s IBS. Sherlock did not expect sympathy, the need for that had squashed when he was a child, but he had hoped for it just to be ignored. Instead Mycroft gave him fairly regular lectures about not being a drama queen and to just try harder. Mycroft seemed oblivious to the battle Sherlock fought every day, the careful choices in food, the juggling of drugs to obtain minimum pain and maximum brain power. Every day was a struggle to maintain some semblance of a normal life and Sherlock never complained about it to other people. But it was never enough for Mycroft and Sherlock had long since given up trying to appease his brother.  
  
Sherlock hadn’t told John about his illness when John moved in. Mostly because Sherlock had absolutely no inclination to talk about it with _anyone_ , given the private nature of his illness. But also because once he’d gotten to know John, Sherlock couldn’t stand the thought of seeing in John the same thing he’d seen in all the doctors he’d visited; that look that said ‘you’re no better than a hypochondriac, why can’t you just deal with stress better and stop giving yourself hysterical diarrhoea,’ or variations there of. It wasn’t that Sherlock thought John was an incompetent doctor, not at all, but Sherlock knew that when John was studying medicine that IBS was thought by all to be psychosomatic and that being in the army there was no way that John had stayed up to date with all new medical discoveries and Sherlock knew that generally, people didn’t like to change their minds.  
  
Sherlock was grateful for his slightly eccentric reputation, which he had cultivated when he saw the benefits. People never questioned when he suddenly disappeared, assuming he was off following up some lead, when the reality was that he was usually slipping off to use the bathroom. His bouts of reclusiveness which most people would put down as troubled genius angsting or being so caught up in his own brain that he forgot about everything else were actually just days when Sherlock was in far too much pain to function properly and despite medication couldn’t afford to be away from a toilet for more than fifteen minutes. Sherlock’s coat served two purposes, firstly it was beautifully warm and that helped ease his stomach cramps, and secondly it was loose enough that it hid any bloating he might be experiencing. His dressing grown had the same function at home. Sherlock had to be extra vigilant about what he ate while he was on a case, he couldn’t afford to not be at his best. He maintained the appearance that he didn’t eat at all while working, but the truth was he just ate rice crackers when the hunger became too much, because being hungry brought with it its own brand of pain that he couldn’t afford either. His change in eating habits could make his condition more noticeable than the appearance of not eating at all, which was strange enough to be lumped together with all his other eccentricities.  
  
Living with John, Sherlock had to be a bit more careful when they were both at home about hiding his condition, but it was easy enough. Sherlock was lucky in that his bedroom had a small en suite bathroom, an unusual feature, and one of the reasons Sherlock had been so adamant that they move in there. When John started working it was even easier to keep it under wraps.   
  
Sherlock had given up on relationships by the time he was twenty-two. He’d been very much in love with Victor which made it all the worse when Victor had finally gotten fed up with his ‘ridiculous imaginary illness’. Sherlock could remember the conversation like it had happened minutes ago instead of years, how annoying it was when Sherlock couldn’t go out, how Sherlock just did it for the attention, how he was just a princess that wouldn’t eat normal food like everyone else, how, contradictorily, he had an eating disorder, how he was frigid and used his pain as an excuse for not wanting to have sex.   
  
Sherlock refused to delete the diatribe from his head; he needed it to remember why other people weren’t worth the trouble, because apparently Mycroft and Father and Mummy’s derision hadn’t been enough to achieve that. So Sherlock told people that he was married to his work, which was essentially true. Though it was not a line he had to use often, given his general acerbic nature.  
  
John was probably the first person Sherlock regretted turning down. John was different to the heaving masses of society; he appreciated the chase, he saw Sherlock’s deductions as interesting rather than unnerving, he could withstand Sherlock’s supposed black moods (or rather, he at least came back after he’d stormed out, which was more than Sherlock could say for a lot of people.) It sparked a small glimmer of hope in Sherlock’s chest that maybe John was different. If he could accept Sherlock for all his unusualness then maybe he could accept the part that Sherlock kept hidden from everyone. Maybe John would be the first person to offer Sherlock comfort rather than scorn.  
  
It was foolish to hope, though, and when John started dating Sarah, Sherlock tried to be glad. Sherlock knew that John’s sudden desperate effort at dating women was in part an attempt to put Sherlock at ease, plausible deniability that John had tried to make a move on Sherlock, as if he was saying “Hey, let’s pretend I’m straight instead of bisexual and this won’t be awkward.” Sherlock appreciated the sentiment, misguided though it was. It wasn’t that Sherlock wasn’t interested, on the contrary he really really was, it was just that he couldn’t. Relationships just weren’t possible for him. So Sherlock tried not to be jealous of Sarah, tried not to be pleased when he saw that John had spent another night on her couch, another night not having sex with her.   
  
It galled Sherlock that IBS could be made worse by stress. It was for a purely physical reason that this happened; stress and the nervous system are linked, and the nervous system controls the bowels. But far too many people, including doctors, have used it as ‘proof’ that if the patient just stopped being so hysterical about everything that their problems would disappear. The fact of the matter was that it was impossible for anyone to live a completely stress free life, but Sherlock had no need to see a psychologist to learn ‘stress management’. There was a reason that Sherlock tried not to get emotionally involved in his cases, not because he didn’t care, but because caring could literally mean not being able to solve a case if it triggered a flare-up.  
  
Even knowing the physiological reasons, when Sherlock was aware that it was stress that had caused a flare up it felt like he’d failed somehow. It was in part due to conditioning, that guilty feeling that he’d get. He’d had IBS since he was a child and every time he’d complained of a stomach ache Mummy would sigh and Mycroft would lecture him and when Father was alive he’d be given hidings. He’d seen many doctors, as a child and as an adult, and all of them had said that it was all in his head, that it was a bid for attention, that he was lying, that he needed to be better emotionally equipped, learn how to deal with real life. He knew now that they were all wrong, but that guilty feeling still lingered like he was one of Skinner’s rats. It was frustrating to be a slave to operant conditioning. He could talk himself out of it, but he could never stop that knee-jerk reaction.  
  
Their run in with Moriarty was uniquely traumatic. When John had walked out wearing a semtex vest Sherlock’s stomach had felt like it had dropped right out of him and he had immediately felt nauseous. He hadn’t anticipated John being kidnapped. Sherlock wasn’t used to caring. When the adrenalin kicked in it was easy to ignore those feelings and later, when he aimed John’s gun at the vest at Moriarty’s feet Sherlock had felt equal parts numb and wired. Mycroft’s men had burst in before Sherlock had had to make good on his threat and Sherlock was flooded with relief. Sherlock had counted on Mycroft’s involvement, using his documents as bait for Moriarty had guaranteed that, but their arrival had taken longer than expected. Moriarty was detained and Sherlock and John were safe and free to leave.  
  
They’d stopped off for a curry on the way home, and Sherlock, high on the knowledge that they were both alive and uninjured ate without thinking of the consequences.  
  
Which led to Sherlock’s predicament that morning, the day after. Stress and curry. It was an agonising combination and Sherlock was so angry with himself for not foreseeing it. When Sherlock had finished on the loo he felt weak and shaky, a reaction to the extreme pain, and he crawled back into bed hoping he’d get some more sleep. Finding a comfortable position was hard, with his stomach still aching, but he eventually settled on his side with a pillow behind his back that he rolled back onto slightly to take the pressure off his stomach.  
  
It was moments like these when Sherlock was still reeling from the pain and the unavoidable panic that the pain brought that Sherlock felt sorry for himself. He rarely allowed himself any self pity; it didn’t achieve anything useful, just made him feel bad. But sometimes he wished for just a day without pain or uncomfortability, where he didn’t have analyse every piece of food he ate or calculate when he should take painkillers with the knowledge that when he did his mental functioning would take a hit for a while but that the pain would do the same. He was helpless and that was a truly horrible feeling.  
  
While Sherlock was contemplating the poor state of his stomach John entered his room. Sherlock turned his attention to John. He was already showered and dressed, his hair still slightly damp. He’d already eaten breakfast, eggs and orange juice by the smell. Sherlock wondered what time it was, judging from the light it must have been about ten or eleven, he hadn’t bothered to check.  
  
“Sherlock,” John said, “I just wanted to check on you, since you weren’t up yet. Are you alright?”  
  
John’s worry was a result of the previous night’s trauma, Sherlock was sure. Kidnapping did that to people and even though John would be better equipped to deal with it than the average person, having been in the army. Sherlock felt a stab of guilt at having a played an indirect part in it.  
  
“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, but something must have showed on his face because John was moving further into his room rather than leaving. John sat down next the bed next to Sherlock.  
  
“I want to thank you,” John said.  
  
“For what?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“For caring. About me.”  
  
Sherlock knew that if this had happened at another time, when his brain was working faster and his stomach wasn’t still clenching he’d have something to say to that. A dry joke, maybe. Something sardonic. As it was, he couldn’t get past the fact that _John_ had just thanked him for _caring_. His expression must have given him away again because John’s eyes went soft and Sherlock spared a moment to be annoyed with himself for being so open although it was possible that John had also gotten better at reading Sherlock.  
  
The moment of annoyance passed when John leaned towards Sherlock and pressed a kiss to his lips. Sherlock hadn’t expected that at all, but he should have anticipated some sort of change in his and John’s relationship after the previous night. John finally had proof that Sherlock wasn’t the sociopath that he claimed to be, and more than that, that Sherlock, without a doubt, cared for John. Really, Sherlock _should_ have expected John to react like that, after all, John had been willing to lay down his life for Sherlock and Sherlock’s responding gesture was more than enough to show his true feelings.  
  
Sherlock’s train of thought vanished when John deepened the kiss. Although they were only connected at the mouth, Sherlock could feel John’s warmth radiating against him and it was remarkably comforting. Sherlock had forgotten what being close to another person was like.   
  
It should have been good, the kiss. And it was - John was an excellent kisser, firm but not controlling, supple lips and minimal saliva - but for one problem; John tasted horrifically of orange juice. Sherlock’s stomach could not handle citrus of any sort and he’d developed a Pavlovian response to it so that even the smell made him vaguely nauseous. The taste was far, far worse.  
  
Sherlock pulled away grimacing and John jerked back looking confused before his face went carefully blank.  
  
“I’m sorry,” John said, his tone of voice putting further distance between them, “I shouldn’t have done that.”  
  
John made to get up. That should have been Sherlock’s chance, just let John walk away. It would be awkward for a few days, John would redouble his efforts with Sarah, might actually get somewhere if he played his cards right and once they were in a sexual relationship John would forget all about his attraction to Sherlock. But after their run-in with Moriarty the previous night Sherlock found he was unable to push John away. John would die for him, and Sherlock was sure that he would die for John too. Sherlock knew he would end up getting hurt in the end, John would inevitably find out about Sherlock’s illness, would try to fix him and when he couldn’t he’d get angry and fed up and he’d leave. But better for Sherlock to hurt later than for him to hurt John now. And if Sherlock was honest with himself, he wanted John more than he wanted to protect himself.  
  
“It’s not-” Sherlock began, putting out a hand to stop John, “ _I’m_ sorry.”  
  
It would have galled Sherlock to apologise, once upon a time, but John was the exception to almost every rule.  
  
John made no more effort to get up, but his expression suggested he was waiting for Sherlock to explain himself.  
  
“I would very much have like to continue kissing you,” Sherlock said, placing his hand on John’s knee to reassure him, “but I’m feeling a little ill.”  
  
Watching John’s face was fascinating then, to see him process the information that Sherlock was indeed amenable to his advances, the happiness that blossomed when he’d realised that, warring with concern that Sherlock was ill.  
  
“What’s the matter?” John asked, concern winning.  
  
Sherlock considered lying, although faking an illness with a doctor was harder than with the average person, Sherlock could easily come up with one. But for some reason Sherlock didn’t want to lie to John.  
  
“I’ve got a bad stomach,” Sherlock replied, and so it was very much a misleading truth but seeing as Sherlock had no intention of telling John about his IBS, it was the closest to the whole truth he could get.  
  
“Can I get you anything?” John asked, holding his hand to Sherlock’s forehead to check for a fever. Sherlock was no warmer than usual.  
  
“No,” Sherlock said. His stomach was beginning to roil again and he knew he’d have to get to the loo soon. “Just, some privacy?” Sherlock allowed his gaze to flicker to the bathroom, sure that John would get the hint.  
  
“Alright,” John said, giving Sherlock’s shoulder a squeeze, “I’ll be in the lounge if you need me.”  
  
As John was about to leave Sherlock asked, “Are _you_ alright?”  
  
John turned and gave Sherlock a small but sincere smile, “You know, I think I really am.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next day Sherlock’s stomach ache had dulled and although it still hurt he was able to get up and venture into other parts of the flat. John was already up, though still in his pyjamas, sitting on the couch with his laptop. John smiled when he saw Sherlock and patted the seat next to him.  
  
“Come sit down,” John said, putting his laptop aside, “Are you feeling better?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said, taking a seat.  
  
John looked at Sherlock as if trying to evaluate whether he was, in fact, better. Sherlock must have passed the test because John was leaning forward then, sliding a hand into Sherlock’s hair and capturing his lips in a kiss. The kiss was more passionate than the last one they shared, but in no way aggressive. The best thing, besides just being able to touch John and be touched by him, was no unpleasant tastes, so Sherlock could fully enjoy it. Sherlock’s hands went to John’s waist, holding him there. John’s fist tightened in Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock couldn’t help but moan. _God it felt good._ John smiled against Sherlock’s lips.  
  
Without breaking the kiss John manoeuvred them so that John was lying back on the couch with Sherlock on top of him. John widened his legs so that Sherlock could fit in between them. They both moaned when their groins met and Sherlock was grateful that neither of them had dressed for the day so that it was only the thin fabric of pyjama bottoms separating them. John was already hard and feeling it against him made Sherlock want to shiver. It was one thing to know intellectually that John was attracted to him and a whole other thing to actually _feel_ the physical manifestation of it.  
  
Sherlock rocked against John, revelling in the feeling, his body thrumming with bliss because finally, _finally_ Sherlock wasn’t denying himself. Finally he was getting the human contact that he longed for but never entertained the possibility of. John’s hands were all over him, almost overwhelming Sherlock until finally they slipped down the back of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms and gripped his arse. Sherlock’s hips bucked, his erection grinding into John’s, making them both gasp.   
  
Sherlock could tell he was close and hoped John was too but that train of thought was quickly derailed when John’s hands parted his buttocks and he slipped a finger down towards the centre. Sherlock jerked away.  
  
“No, don’t,” He gasped, “After yesterday…” Sherlock trailed off, trying to find a way to say ‘I’m sorry, but the skin around my anus is quite sore and raw after yesterday’s violent diarrhoea’ without completely ruining the mood.  
  
But apparently he didn’t have to because John was nodding and saying “Ok, I understand, I won’t” and withdrew his hands so that they were just resting on his arse cheeks.  
  
“This alright?” He asked, and when Sherlock nodded he smiled.  
  
Sherlock began thrusting against John again, slightly less frantic now but able to savour it more. He leant down to kiss John, wanting to touch as much of him as possible. Next time, Sherlock mused, he wanted to explore John with his hands and mouth, touch him absolutely everywhere.  
  
John’s hips where rolling up to meet Sherlock, his hands on Sherlock’s bum gently guiding his thrusts and when John broke away from the kiss panting, Sherlock knew John was close.  
  
Less then a minute later John was coming, he held Sherlock to him and he gasped and his hips bucked and finally he went boneless beneath Sherlock, panting. Sherlock hovered above him, erection still straining against his pyjamas.  
  
“God yes,” John panted after a moment and when his breathing began to even out he continued, “Now you.”  
  
John withdrew his hands from Sherlock’s arse and slipped his left hand down the front of his pyjama bottoms and took hold of Sherlock’s cock. Biting his lip, Sherlock dropped his head against John’s chest as John began wanking him. _Oh_ it felt so good to feel someone else’s hand. It was a slightly awkward angle for John, but Sherlock was so close by that point it didn’t matter. All too soon Sherlock could feel the telltale _tightburnyes_ low in his pelvis and then he was coming, painting John’s hand and the inside of his pants with come.  
  
After John had pulled his hand out Sherlock slumped against him, hips still occasionally jerking involuntarily. Sherlock pressed his lips against John’s neck.  
  
“Thank you,” He whispered.  
  
John hummed and turned his head to kiss Sherlock’s temple.  
  
A thought occurred to Sherlock then, settling heavily in his chest, putting a dampener on the moment he and John had just shared.  
  
“John?” Sherlock asked, “What about Sarah?”  
  
Sherlock expected John to stiffen, close down and avoid the subject, maybe push Sherlock off and leave. But instead John kissed Sherlock again and said, “I broke up with her yesterday. After we kissed.”  
  
“You-” Sherlock started, “Oh.” Sherlock hadn’t expected that. Despite John’s obviously strong moral code, Sherlock never expected that after just one kiss John was willing to give up the only ‘normal’ part of his life. The thought sat warmly in his mind, that John valued him enough.  
  
“I care about you, Sherlock,” John said, wrapping an arm about Sherlock to hug him, “I could never keep you as a dirty secret or anything like that,” John frowned ernestly. “And even though I cared about you long before Sarah, I would never want to cheat on her either. She didn’t sound particularly upset when I broke it off, which is good. I hate breaking up with people.”  
  
Sherlock kissed John’s neck then, unable to say anything to that. He relaxed back into John with a content sigh. Sherlock thought he could stay lying on top of John all day, he was so comfortable despite his sticky pyjama bottoms, but John soon began shifting uncomfortably and Sherlock moved to let him up.  
  
“I’m sorry,” John said, “But I really need a shower.”  
  
Sherlock only noticed then that John’s hand was still covered in Sherlock’s ejaculate and he was holding it awkwardly to keep from getting it on anything. It was testament to how satisfying his orgasm was, that something had escaped Sherlock’s noticed.  
  
Sherlock let John leave with good grace, even though he secretly wanted to carry on being in close proximity with him, and lay back on the couch.  
  
+  
  
John suggested later that day that they go out for supper and after a phone call from Mycroft saying that Moriarty had been taken care of and that Mycroft’s people were tracking down the rest of Moriarty’s organisation, Sherlock was more than happy to oblige. It would have rankled Sherlock to let Mycroft deal with it, if Moriarty hadn’t gone after John. As it was, Sherlock was content because keeping John safe was far more important.  
  
Sherlock suggested they go to Angelo’s. There were two reasons for that: Firstly, he was sure John would see the sentimental value in going back to the restaurant of their first stake-out together, and secondly, because Angelo remembered what Sherlock could and couldn’t eat (although he obviously didn’t know the reason behind Sherlock’s food specifications) and Sherlock wouldn’t have to grill the waiter on the ingredients of the meal. If Sherlock was worried about John finding out about his IBS when they were just friends, it was nothing compared to the nervousness he felt now.  
  
John’s smile confirmed that Sherlock had made the right choice and their evening at Angelo’s was very pleasant, Angelo furnishing their table with a candle and winking at Sherlock when John didn’t protest. The meal was good; Sherlock was happy to be eating something that was likely to be easy on his stomach so he ate without the familiar knot of tension that there might be negative consequences. He tried not to be worried when John ordered wine, another thing that completely disagreed with Sherlock’s stomach, but the meal would surely take away the taste so kissing John later probably wouldn’t be a problem. When Sherlock declined the offer of a drink John merely shrugged. John also ordered food which was blessedly light on onions and garlic, much to Sherlock’s pleasure; more food that Sherlock could not eat.   
  
Conversation was kept light-hearted, although the spectre of the pool still hung over them. Sherlock wondered if they’d have to have a Conversation about it, and if so, what he would say, and more importantly what would John say? Sherlock still felt a lingering sense of guilt about John’s kidnapping, although John didn’t seem at all affected by it.  
  
The walk home began pleasantly, John walked close to Sherlock so that they brushed together with each movement. Sherlock wondered what would happen when they got back to Baker Street. Would John want to take their sexual relationship further, or would he take the more chivalrous gentlemanly route? They’d only shared their first kiss 36 hours previously, and already they had brought each other to orgasm on the couch, so it was unlikely that John would suddenly treat Sherlock like a blushing virgin. While Sherlock was definitely keen to take things further, anal sex wasn’t an option given that his stomach wasn’t completely settled yet, especially on the receiving end. Although Sherlock didn’t think he was up for any kind of sex that night. Sherlock wasn’t sure how to handle the situation if it happened. He knew John wouldn’t be offended the first time Sherlock turned him down; he was a caring and empathetic man. But when it happened frequently? There’d be times when Sherlock couldn’t have sex at all, and others where the position would have to be chosen carefully so as not to put pressure on his stomach. Sherlock was equally fond of being the receiver as he was fond of being the giver, he didn’t want to be exclusively one or the other. Sherlock could hear Victor’s voice in his head as clearly as if he was standing right next to him, “You’re frigid, there’s something wrong with you” he had accused. Sherlock’s stomach churned. Would John think the same? Sherlock could tell that John was a very sexual man, not demanding, but very much in need of a sexual connection as he was an emotional connection. Would he be hurt if Sherlock couldn’t have sex that day? He’d stuck around with Sarah for a while without them having sex, but he’d broken up with her the moment he and Sherlock had kissed.  
  
Sherlock wasn’t aware that he’d drifted away from John while they were walking, lost in his thoughts as he was. He only noticed how far away John was once he was on the steps of 221B. The look on John’s face wasn’t hurt exactly, but not entirely free of it either. Sherlock could also see concern lingering in his eyes.  
  
They made their way up to their flat quietly and while Sherlock had been nervous about turning John down, he was also hoping for at least a kiss. Instead, John went straight to the kitchen and put on the kettle, cognisant of the distance that Sherlock had put between them. Sherlock was left standing in the door way. Sherlock’s stomach was beginning to get sore.  
  
“Tea?” John asked, and Sherlock struggled to locate the meaning of the tone.   
  
Was John annoyed? Merely concerned? John always made tea when he came home, so was the adherence to routine simply that, or was it John’s way of trying to normalise the situation? If he was trying to normalise the situation was that a bad thing or a good thing? A respect for Sherlock’s pensive mood or as an effort to put distance between them?  
  
“Sherlock? Do you want tea?”  
  
Sherlock jumped slightly. John had come out of the kitchen without Sherlock noticing.  
  
“Ah, no. Thank you,” He answered and when John returned to the kitchen Sherlock moved into the living room and sat on the couch. Sherlock steepled his fingers underneath his chin. John had never been this distracting before. No one had. Was John special, or was Sherlock getting less aware? Or both?  
  
When John came into the lounge carrying his mug Sherlock _did_ notice him that time, which was a relief. John sat in the chair opposite the couch.  
  
 _To give me the space he thinks I want?_ Sherlock thought, _Or to put distance between us?_  
  
John’s posture was relaxed and he watched Sherlock over the rim of his mug as he drank. Sherlock remained quiet, furiously wondering how to get back the easy intimacy of the morning and the companionability of their time at Angelo’s. It was Sherlock’s fault for getting lost in his thoughts, he knew. He had no idea how to fix it.  
  
When John had finished his tea he took his dirty mug to the kitchen.  
  
“I’m going to go to bed,” John said when he returned, and made his way to the stairs.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said, suddenly very anxious about John leaving the room, though he still wasn’t sure what to say.  
  
“Yes, Sherlock?” John said coolly.  
  
Sherlock had no idea how John could be so calm. Didn’t it bother him that Sherlock had been lost in his own world since after supper? Could it be that John simply didn’t care? Was that a good thing?  
  
Sherlock wasn’t used to feeling vulnerable; he kept people at arms length, had built up a very effective wall. But now he’d felt vulnerable for three days in a row. First with Moriarty who had seen through Sherlock’s façade so easily, then being ill in front of John the previous day, and now flailing for a course of action when John seemed completely unfazed. What Sherlock did know was that he needed to be near John.   
  
“Stay the night with me?” Sherlock said impulsively, hoping he didn’t sound too needy.  
  
John immediately broke into a smile and it calmed something in Sherlock. He hadn’t seen a hint of a smile on John since they’d left Angelo’s and Sherlock had been the cause of that. Sherlock didn’t like it.  
  
“Yeah, alright,” John said.  
  
John went and got changed into his pyjamas, clearly aware that Sherlock’s intention was not amorous. Sherlock had expected some awkwardness at sharing a bed for the first time but when John joined him in bed he curled around Sherlock like he’d always been there, arm flung over Sherlock’s middle. Sherlock kissed the top of John’s head by way of goodnight and waited for John to drift off to sleep.  
  
John’s arm on his stomach was heavy and uncomfortable and Sherlock didn’t want to move it while John was still awake in case John assumed that Sherlock disliked having John so close. John fell asleep fairly quickly and Sherlock gently pulled John’s arm up so that it rested over Sherlock’s ribcage rather than on the soft part of his belly.  
  
Finally able to relax properly, Sherlock fell asleep.  
  
\+   
  
When Sherlock woke it was still dark and it took him a few seconds to realise what had woken him. John had moved sometime in the night, he was curled up in the other side of the bed, his back to Sherlock and he was murmuring something. Sherlock couldn’t make out what John was saying so he shifted closer. Mostly they were just nonsense noises but somewhere in litany of sounds Sherlock could make out his own name. Was John dreaming about him? It was a bad dream by the looks of it; John’s posture was defensive.   
  
Sherlock started when John suddenly sat up with a shout. John sat there panting for a while and Sherlock reached out a hand and touched his arm. John jerked away but visibly relaxed when he saw Sherlock. John then slumped back onto the bed, breathing still fast, but he was clearly trying to control it.  
  
Sherlock wasn’t sure if he should try and touch John again or leave him alone. Would John want comforting or to pretend that he hadn’t just been having nightmares? The decision was taken out of Sherlock’s hands when John opened his arms and softly said, “Come here.”  
  
Sherlock scooted over and lay on his side next to John, curling an arm over his chest. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him tightly, fingers drawing distracting patterns on Sherlock’s back. Typical John, finding comfort in holding someone rather than being held. Sherlock could feel himself getting hard, pressed against John as he was and while he was sure John wouldn’t be offended, Sherlock didn’t think it was appropriate given that John’s heart was still pounding from his nightmare.  
  
“What was your dream about?” Sherlock asked, distracting himself; finding out more about John was always high up on the list of Sherlock’s priorities.  
  
“It was a mixture of things,” John gave a self-deprecating laugh.  
  
“A mixture of?” Sherlock prompted. Sherlock wanted to know if he had been a feature in John’s dream or if his name had just gotten mixed up in the sounds John was making.  
  
John sighed, “Afghanistan. And the pool.”  
  
Sherlock ached to know details but John wasn’t being forthcoming and Sherlock wasn’t sure if pushing John was worth it. With most people Sherlock didn’t care about boundaries, and even with John, Sherlock sometimes ignored them, but things were different now. Now Sherlock actively wanted to make John happy and that was going to mean taking John’s wishes into account.  
  
“I was scared, you know?” John said suddenly.   
  
Alright, so maybe John did want to talk.  
  
“In Afghanistan?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“No,” John said, “Well yes. But that’s not what I meant. In the pool. I was scared in the pool.”  
  
“Oh,” Sherlock shifted a little, “Understandable. Semtex vests aren’t exactly comforting.”  
  
“Sherlock,” John squeezed Sherlock closer to him, “I wasn’t just scared for myself. I’ve faced death before, when I got shot. I don’t want to die, but that wasn’t what scared me the most. I was scared for you. You died. In my dream, you died.”  
  
John’s breath hitched but he didn’t cry. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to say to that. It hadn’t occurred to him that John could feel like that. Sherlock had been so focussed on his worry about John that he’d missed the signs that John had been worried about him. Yes, he knew that John would die for him, but Sherlock hadn’t connected that to John being scared for him. It was concerning that Sherlock had missed so much, and even more concerning was that instead of it making Sherlock want to put distance between himself and John, it made him want to be closer, to gain comfort from him.  
  
Sherlock buried his face in John’s neck and tangled their legs together. Sherlock hoped that John could tell by his actions that he felt the same way about John.   
  
John gave Sherlock another squeeze.  
[  
](http://plain-jane08.livejournal.com/81124.html)


	3. Chapter 3

The day after Sherlock received a call from Lestrade for help on a case and although his stomach was still iffy, Sherlock jumped at the chance to do something other than feel ill and worry about John. John went with Sherlock as he didn’t have work. Sherlock was secretly certain that John wouldn’t go back to work ever, given his break-up with Sarah. While it was clear that John was happy with the choice he had made, he still harboured some guilt over Sarah and would want to avoid seeing her.  
  
It was early; the sun had just risen when they met up with Lestrade. The first thing Lestrade said to Sherlock when he arrived at the crime scene was not detail on the victim, but rather, “The fifth pip. It hasn’t happened yet.”  
  
Sherlock hoped John’s face didn’t give anything away- he was sure his own was unreadable enough- but he couldn’t risk a glance at John, that would definitely be suspicious.  
  
“No,” Sherlock said, voice carefully bordering bored and vaguely disappointed, “I believe that the bomber isn’t a threat any more.”  
  
Sherlock heard Donovan give a disgusted snort.  
  
“Okay,” Lestrade responded and Sherlock would have been surprised at how easily Lestrade had let it go if it weren’t for Lestrade’s eyes quickly flicking to the CCTV camera at the end of the road.  
  
Funny, Sherlock thought, how people are happier to follow a lie when both parties know the truth, or at least some of the truth, rather than expose it. All for convenience sake. Sherlock himself used that convention often.  
  
“Right,” Lestrade said, “Seems we’ve got another in a series of killings across London, targeting sex workers. Victim is between twenty-five and thirty by the looks of it, no ID, time of death between eight and twelve hours previously, cause of death: stab wounds to the chest.”  
  
Sherlock nodded, slipped under the yellow tape and approached the victim. He circled the body, categorising everything he saw. The woman was dressed in a fairly low-cut top, sleeveless, thin silver material, but not indecent. There was blood from the stab wounds all down her front. Her skirt was black and very short, barely covering her and with the way she was lying Sherlock could see very clearly that she wasn’t wearing underwear. No blood on the front of the skirt, but blood on the inside. She wore high heels, the heel no thicker than a pencil and about three inches high, they were beige and the strap on the left foot was tighter than the right. They were new, or had barely been worn.  
  
Sherlock squatted down. Her nails were neat and short and there were black smudges on her fingers. There was no blood pooling around the body, so she had been moved from where she was stabbed. There were three stab wounds to her chest, all missing her breasts, the pattern suggested that it was the first and deepest stab wound which killed her, from the position and angle it would have caught her heart; it had slipped between her ribs. The remaining two wounds had hit the ribs and were far shallower and sloppier. The killer had lost his nerve, perhaps.  
  
Sherlock pulled out his mobile and checked the temperatures for that area during the night. He made a thoughtful noise.  
  
“You’ve taken the crime scene photos already?” Sherlock directed the question to Lestrade.  
  
“Yeah,” Lestrade nodded.  
  
Sherlock rolled the body to the side and using a gloved hand pressed the darkened skin on her back. The discoloured skin went white.  
  
“Time of death is five to seven hours,” Sherlock said, resting the body back down, “Lividity hasn’t set yet and this area was colder last night than usual. It would have cooled the body faster, especially given her clothing.”  
  
Sherlock picked up the woman’s hand and smelled it.  
  
“Right,” Sherlock said standing up, “This woman isn’t a prostitute and this wasn’t a serial killing.”  
  
“Dressed like that,” Anderson spluttered, “In this area? Seems likely that she was. And there were condoms in her purse.”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock drawled, “Because women who care about safe sex are definitely all prostitutes, especially if they’re wearing short skirts.”  
  
Anderson huffed but didn’t say anything more; Donovan was giving him a hard look.  
  
“Her shoes were put on after death,” Sherlock continued, “They don’t match the outfit, wrong colour, beige with black and silver, unlikely. She’s barely worn them, so not her usual fare. The one strap is done up tighter than the other, she wouldn’t have made that mistake herself. The skirt was also put on after death, no blood on the front when there is a clear trail from the top she’s wearing. Also, the woman was menstruating when she was killed and it’s fairly unlikely that a woman who was menstruating would go out in that short a skirt without underwear. Who ever killed her wanted you to think she was a prostitute, or was making a point.”  
  
Sherlock looked up from the body. Donovan looked grudgingly impressed, Anderson was still angry, Lestrade was nodding grimly and John… John was giving Sherlock the barest hint of a restrained smile, and Sherlock knew that if they weren’t surrounded by other people, John would be grinning at Sherlock. Sherlock had to suppress his own smile.  
  
“I suspect the boyfriend, possibly because she was cheating on him, given the condoms in her purse, and the message being sent by dumping her here dressed like she is. He’s calling her a whore,” both Donovan and Anderson scowled at that, “She worked with money, the black smudges on her hands most likely come from handling bank notes, confirmed by the smell. A bank teller, maybe, definitely not a cashier. Find out who she is, find the boyfriend and assuming she was barefooted or wearing flat shoes at the time of death, from the angle of the stab wounds I’d put him at between six and six foot two. If the boyfriend is that tall, arrest him immediately. If the boyfriend is much taller than that, or shorter, then it was most likely her lover.”  
  
With that Sherlock was ready to leave and swooped away, leaving John to follow him. Sherlock slowed down as they rounded the corner so that he was walking next to John rather than in front of him. Sherlock smiled when John slid his hand into Sherlock’s.  
  
“You’re brilliant, you know that, right?” John asked.  
  
“So you keep telling me,” Sherlock said, squeezing John’s hand.  
  
Sherlock’s stomach had been cramping since he’d been woken up by Lestrade’s call and while he’d been able to think past the pain at the crime scene it was rapidly making itself known again. Sherlock’s swift exit was not just for dramatics. Sherlock hailed a cab, hoping he’d get home in time to use the loo.  
  
John carried on holding Sherlock’s hand in the cab and Sherlock was grateful for the anchor as his stomach pain became more intense. Unconsciously Sherlock clutched John’s hand. John looked at Sherlock and Sherlock knew the pain showed on his face, the tight lines around his mouth, his eyes half closed. John frowned and gave Sherlock a questioning look but Sherlock ignored him.  
  
The traffic was worse than Sherlock had hoped and it soon became clear that he wasn’t going to make it back to Baker Street in time. As the cab passed a coffee shop that Sherlock knew had fairly decent public toilets he asked the cabby to stop.  
  
“I’ve got to do something,” Sherlock said to John, “I’ll meet you at home.”  
  
With that Sherlock rushed into the coffee shop.  
  
+  
  
When Sherlock came out of the loo he knew he was pale and looked ill. His head was still swimming from the pain and even though no one was the wiser, he still carried the vague embarrassment of having used a public toilet for something other than urinating.  
  
Sherlock stopped short when John appeared in front of him.  
  
“I thought you’d gone home,” Sherlock said, a little wrong footed to find John there.  
  
“I was concerned,” John said, expression suggesting that he had every right to be as he looked Sherlock up and down. “Still ill?” He asked.  
  
“Yeah,” Sherlock admitted softly. _Always ill_ he thought to himself.  
  
“Come on,” John said, pressing his hand to Sherlock’s back and guiding him out the door, “Let’s get you home.”  
  
“You know,” John said and he hailed another cab, “You don’t have to hide being sick from me. I am a doctor after all.”  
  
John went to a pharmacy after taking Sherlock home to get Sherlock painkillers and Imodium, Sherlock didn’t tell him that he already had all of that and more in his bathroom.  
  
Later that day Lestrade texted Sherlock:  
  
 _“The boyfriend confessed. He’s six foot one.”_


	4. Chapter 4

It took two weeks for Sherlock’s stomach to settle properly, which was to say that by the end of the two weeks he only experienced discomfort rather than pain and trips to the bathroom weren’t quite so urgent. There had been no more cases from Lestrade during that time, which was good considering how bad Sherlock’s stomach as been. It was much harder to hide it from John when they were sleeping in the same bed and John had been concerned that Sherlock’s ‘stomach bug’ had lasted that long. He’d also been very sympathetic but knew when to give Sherlock space, which threw Sherlock completely, before his cynicism kicked in and he reminded himself that it was only because John thought he had gastroenteritis and didn’t know the truth. They hadn’t had sex yet, beyond a couple of hand-jobs and a blowjob, and still then John was reticent about even doing that when Sherlock was sick. Not that Sherlock was complaining, but he knew that the next time he had a flare-up John would be more worried, possibly insist on examining him. Every time Sherlock had another flare-up was a step closer to John leaving.  
  
As predicted, John had quit is job at the surgery and was hunting for another one, although now he was adamant at finding one with flexible hours so that he could be with Sherlock during cases.  
  
John came home from an interview looking slightly frazzled and Sherlock, feeling the healthiest he’d been in weeks, knew it was the perfect time to take their sexual relationship further.   
  
The trouble was how to go about it. Sherlock had never initiated anything with Victor, Victor demanded and Sherlock said yes or no. Mostly he said yes, because he wanted it and because otherwise Victor would beg or sigh or complain. He only ever said no when he was feeling really ill, which unfortunately was too often. But John didn’t demand, which actually was rather nice, but it left Sherlock somewhat at a loss with how to get John to have sex with him.  
  
With a sigh, John sat down on the couch next to Sherlock and leaned into him. Sherlock automatically put an arm around John, absentmindedly stroking him as Sherlock continued to think. John leaned in closer.  
  
“Finding a job is hard,” John finally huffed.  
  
“Mmm,” Sherlock said, “You didn’t have that much trouble last time.”  
  
“That’s because last time I flirted with Sarah,” John replied, and then immediately tensed, as he had taken to doing whenever he mentioned Sarah, worried what Sherlock’s reaction would be.  
  
Sherlock sighed. Really, John wasn’t conducive to Sherlock’s current train of thought; if he kept interrupting him, Sherlock would never figure out how to get John to have sex with him.   
  
“So why not turn on your charms for today’s interview?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Because I’m with you now and I’m not interested in flirting with other people,” John said, slipping a hand onto Sherlock’s thigh and squeezing.  
  
Perhaps John was not as secure as Sherlock had assumed. Committed, yes. Loyal, most definitely. But not sure that Sherlock knew that, or that Sherlock felt the same way.  
  
“It doesn’t matter to me,” Sherlock said, immediately regretting the way he’d said it as John slid the hand on Sherlock’s thigh away. Sherlock caught John’s hand before it could leave Sherlock’s leg completely.   
  
“Because I trust you,” Sherlock continued, “Flirting doesn’t mean anything if you’re doing it for a job. I would never expect infidelity from you.”  
  
Sherlock wondered if he’d given too much of himself away then, but John’s hand was squeezing his leg again and then sliding onto his inner thigh and moving up and down, coming dangerously, wonderfully close to Sherlock’s crotch. Sherlock was starting to get hard.  
  
And well, Sherlock thought, in for a penny, in for a pound.  
  
“And I’d be very hurt if you did cheat on me,” Sherlock finished.  
  
John smiled and pulled Sherlock in for a kiss with his free hand. Sherlock returned the kiss enthusiastically. Maybe getting John into bed with him wouldn’t be so hard after all. John’s hand came to rest in Sherlock’s lap and finding him half hard already, John gave Sherlock a gentle squeeze. Sherlock hummed his approval and rolled his hips into John’s hand. John tried to tip Sherlock into lying back on the couch but Sherlock resisted, breaking the kiss, determined to have this go his way.  
  
“I’m feeling a lot better,” Sherlock said.  
  
“That’s good,” John said, expression suggesting that he hadn’t fully understood the meaning behind Sherlock’s non sequitur. John began kissing Sherlock’s neck and it took Sherlock a few seconds to resume his endeavour.   
  
“Let’s take this to the bedroom, John,” Sherlock tried, and let out a quiet moan when John’s tongue flicked against a sensitive spot just below his ear.  
  
“Mmm,” John agreed, but carried on as if he hadn’t heard.  
  
“John, let’s…” Sherlock tried again, only to get distracted when John started unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt and scraping his teeth along the junction where Sherlock’s neck and shoulder met. Sherlock’s hand went to John’s head with the intention of pulling him away, but ended up holding him there instead. Sherlock was getting annoyed with himself now.  
  
“For god’s sake, John, I want you to fuck me!” Sherlock finally blurted out.  
  
That got John’s attention and he finally pulled away from Sherlock and looked at him.   
  
“You want…?” John seemed unable to complete the sentence.  
  
“Yes!” Sherlock said, glad he’d finally told John.  
  
“And you’re feeling well enough?” John asked, his hand going to Sherlock’s stomach as if to check. Sherlock would have been affronted if it weren’t for the delightful mixture of concern, hope and arousal on John’s face as he did so.  
  
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Sherlock smiled.  
  
John leaned forward to kiss Sherlock again but Sherlock stood up before he could, dislodging John’s hand.  
  
“Bedroom,” Sherlock said, holding out his hand to help John off the couch.  
  
Once in Sherlock’s bedroom Sherlock felt a little more in control and decided to follow through with the promise he’d made to himself that first morning on the couch: he was going to explore John completely.  
  
He helped John strip and John helped him strip in return and it was surprisingly unfrantic although Sherlock could practically feel the excitement vibrating under John’s skin, but Sherlock wasn’t complaining, he wanted to take his time. Sherlock wasn’t sure when he’d next get the opportunity to be with John like this, when he’d have another flare-up and when John would finally figure out that Sherlock had IBS and leave.  
  
Sherlock wasn’t excited as John lay on the bed before him, spread out with a slightly self-conscious smile, Sherlock felt reverent. John wasn’t perfect, he had clearly lost muscle that he used to have while in the army, he was starting to get a little chubby around the middle and his shoulder was badly scarred, Sherlock could trace with his eyes the operations that John would have endured to get them, it was surprising he had as much mobility in his shoulder as he did. John was imperfect, just like every other human, perhaps more so, given his experiences, and he was the most wonderful thing Sherlock had ever seen because John was his.  
  
John put up with Sherlock’s experiments, his boredom, his mania, his kidnapping brother. John tried to make sure Sherlock ate and slept. John had killed for Sherlock. John would die for Sherlock. He had even looked after Sherlock these past two weeks.  
  
There was John, unassuming, surprising, small, dynamite John, lying on Sherlock’s bed, naked, hard and smiling. All for Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock lay next to John, half on top of him and placed his lips on John’s injured shoulder. He didn’t want to beat around the bush, worry about touching him there, or not touching him there. Sherlock was gentle, rubbing his lips over the shiny skin, still new enough to be red. Sherlock couldn’t say how glad he was that John had survived the wound, but he hoped that he showed John.  
  
When Sherlock raised his head John was looking at him, eyes blinking a little rapidly, lips curved into a small smile. Sherlock leaned up to press a kiss to John’s lips but didn’t linger there. He had other things to explore.  
  
Sherlock’s next stop was John’s nipples. John wasn’t very sensitive, barely responding when Sherlock licked and sucked at the little brown nubs. But when Sherlock bit down on one, John arched into Sherlock with a pleased cry. Sherlock pinched and pulled at John’s other nipple while he bit and sucked hard at the one in his mouth and once John was panting he swapped over, biting the one he had pinched and pinching the one he had bitten.  
  
When Sherlock finally pulled back John’s nipples were red and slightly swollen. Sherlock worried briefly that he’d gone a little far but John’s blissful face and his leaking cock said otherwise so he put it out of his mind.  
  
John’s stomach called Sherlock next and Sherlock pressed light kisses all over the smooth skin there. John squirmed slightly but Sherlock ignored him except for pressing ever so slightly harder, in case Sherlock was tickling him.  
  
John wasn’t fat by any stretch of the imagination, but he was starting to grow soft. John had lost muscle during his months in hospital and their not so healthy eating habits were starting to show on John’s frame. Sherlock liked it. Given the choice he’d have this John over Army John any day. This John was his; comfortably, fantastically _his_. Running his lips over John’s navel, Sherlock imagined endless Sunday mornings resting his head there, using John as a pillow, content with being still. It was a surprising but not unwelcome thought.  
  
Sherlock moved lower still, where John’s cock was almost lying against his belly. Tenderly, Sherlock wrapped a hand around John’s erection and moved it out the way so that Sherlock could bury his nose in John’s pubic hair. John smelled delicious; masculine, musky, the tiniest hint of sweetness. Sherlock took a deep breath, filling himself with John’s scent.   
  
John slid a hand into Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock flicked his eyes up to look at John’s face. John was propped up on one elbow, his eyes were dark with arousal and he was biting his lip. His breath came in little pants through his nose.  
  
Suddenly Sherlock was aware of his own arousal. He was achingly hard, his erection trapped between himself and the duvet, which was starting to get damp with pre-ejaculate. Sherlock didn’t want to take it slow anymore, he needed John in him right then.  
  
He crawled back up the bed and straddled John’s hips. From there he leaned over to the bedside table and pulled out a condom and lubricant from the drawer. It had been a very long time since Sherlock had bought condoms for anything other than an experiment. He’d gone out and bought some as soon as he and John had gotten together.  
  
Sherlock put the condom aside for the time being. Uncapping the lube, Sherlock took John’s hand in his own and poured the lube onto John’s first two fingers. He recapped the bottle and tossed it to the side before guiding John’s hand behind him.  
  
John’s fingers slipped between Sherlock’s arse cheeks easily and when they came to rest on Sherlock’s hole and he jerked involuntarily.  
  
“You ok?” John asked, watching Sherlock intensely.  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, “Go on.”  
  
John started slowly, rubbing his fingers around, massaging rather than attempting penetration. Sherlock relaxed into it with a sigh. He let John set the pace for that, not bothering to ask for more because John would know when Sherlock was ready, he’d feel it.   
  
And John did, just when Sherlock was starting to get restless for more, John slowly slid the first finger in, applying the barest amount of pressure. Sherlock clenched reflexively and then loosened up again. John waited for him to settle, which didn’t take long, even if it had been a long time since Sherlock had last had anal sex.  
  
John moved his finger in and out and then around, smoothing out the tight muscle. It wasn’t long until he added a second finger, leaning up to press a kiss to Sherlock’s chest as the digits slid home. John took his time, making sure that Sherlock was relaxed as possible. Every now and then John would aim for Sherlock’s prostate, smiling when Sherlock would buck against him.  
  
John pushed a third finger in effortlessly. Sherlock couldn’t remember preparation being that easy with Victor, but then Victor hadn’t been as gentle or as patient as John. It was rather nice, letting his body relax rather than forcing it to.  
  
Soon Sherlock was ready, more than ready, and he grabbed the condom and carefully ripped open the foil. He rolled it onto John cautiously, taking care that there were no air bubbles and making sure John’s foreskin wasn’t pulled uncomfortably. He picked up the lube and poured some onto to John before setting it aside.  
  
John pulled his fingers out and Sherlock felt the loss immediately, just stopping himself from whining at the empty feeling. John helped Sherlock move forward a bit and then grabbed the base of his cock so that it stood upright, his other hand resting on Sherlock’s hip.  
  
Sherlock lowered himself gradually, revelling in the feeling of John stretching him, his cock bigger than the three fingers John had used. John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hip as the head of his cock breeched Sherlock. Sherlock gasped as the flared head was finally in, the stretch easing a little. Progress was easier after that and in no time at all Sherlock was sitting flush against John, his testicles resting on John’s stomach.  
  
John was holding Sherlock’s hips with two hands now, his tight grip telling Sherlock that he was desperate to move and yet his hips remained perfectly still. Clearly John was waiting for Sherlock to adjust. Sherlock smiled, looking down at John’s lovely face, his dark blue eyes with wide blown pupils, his tongue incessantly darting out to his lips. Sherlock tensed his thighs and lifted himself up, John sliding slowly out of him. John’s eyes flickered shut for a moment.   
  
Sherlock set an easy pace, not wanting it over too quickly. He wanted to study John. And it was fascinating. John was so very expressive, his face never properly still as each movement of Sherlock’s brought him more pleasure. John’s hands alternated between squeezing Sherlock’s hips and running up and down his sides and over his stomach, resting there sometimes, presumably to feel the way his abdominal muscles tensed as he moved.  
  
Once John had gotten used to the sensation of Sherlock tight around him, he brought a hand down to encircle Sherlock, keeping his fist loose as he wanked him. They moved together in an easy give and take, a cycle of rolling hips and clever hands and tight muscles and eyes that tried to stay open even as they slid shut; too good to miss and too good to watch. It was symbiotic.  
  
And then John changed the pace.  
  
John didn’t give Sherlock any warning, just carefully but forcefully rolled them over so that John was on top and Sherlock beneath him. John grinned down at Sherlock as he set the pace harder and faster than Sherlock had.  
  
Sherlock felt a knot to tension grow in his chest. This wasn’t his favourite position; Victor had always been rougher when they were like that. But John didn’t fold Sherlock almost in half like Victor had done, crushing his stomach in a way that always hurt, then wondering why Sherlock’s erection had dwindled.  
  
John wasn’t rough, he held Sherlock’s legs in the crook of his elbows, hands settled on Sherlock’s knees, his thrusts were deep but not so hard and fast that Sherlock felt overwhelmed. John’s eyes had gone soft and they shone with care and affection. This wasn’t John taking, this was John giving.  
  
The tension in Sherlock eased and in its wake followed an unfamiliar feeling. So unfamiliar that it took Sherlock a few moments to place it. It wasn’t something Sherlock had felt since he was a very small child. Sherlock felt safe. _John_ made Sherlock feel safe.  
  
Sherlock gasped as John angled a thrust to put pressure on Sherlock’s prostate.  
  
“Stay with me, Sherlock,” John panted.  
  
Sherlock reached down and took his cock in his hand, pumping it almost in time with John’s rhythm. John was breathing hard now and Sherlock knew he was approaching orgasm. Sherlock was a little further behind, but it didn’t bother him. Seeing John come while he was inside him was something Sherlock did not want to miss. His own orgasm would get in the way.  
  
Sherlock tightened himself around John and John’s hips stuttered before finding their rhythm again. John was close, his hands gripping Sherlock’s legs now, and Sherlock urged him on, fist leisurely moving over his cock as he enjoyed John’s satisfaction.  
  
Finally, John came, pressing deep into Sherlock and shuddering, eyes scrunching up, mouth going slack; it was a picture Sherlock wanted to save in his mind forever.  
  
John pulled out and took care of the condom quickly before lying next to Sherlock and curling a hand around Sherlock’s erection, linking fingers with Sherlock’s. They brought Sherlock off together, hands clasped and John kissing Sherlock’s neck and whispering in his ear how gorgeous he was and “yes, come for me, Sherlock” and “I love seeing you like this” and John’s teeth and tongue and lips and hand. And then Sherlock’s vision sparking white and black and heat and _yes_ and Sherlock came all over them.  
  
Hands still linked, Sherlock drew John into a deep kiss.  
  
  
  
 _  
_


	5. Chapter 5

The next night John cooked supper. Although he didn’t say it, Sherlock knew it was a celebration of sorts. For John the final act of anal sex had secured their relationship, it was a commitment for him. Sherlock liked seeing John that happy. It was nothing overt, just an ease in his shoulders and a slight up tilt of the corners of his mouth, but he may as well have been dancing for joy for all that Sherlock observed. Which was why Sherlock didn’t say anything when he saw John adding onions to the meal. Sherlock didn’t want to be the cause of John losing that little smile or his shoulders going tense again. No matter how Sherlock phrased it, telling John to leave out the onions was going to sound like criticism.   
  
The meal was good, Sherlock couldn’t taste the onions, so it was very pleasant and more importantly, when Sherlock had eaten everything off his plate and thanked John for the meal John had broken out into a wide grin.  
  
Sherlock paid for the meal later when they were lying in bed and Sherlock was experiencing some truly foul heartburn. They were lying on their sides; John spooned behind Sherlock, an arm heavy around his middle and already falling asleep while Sherlock’s chest and throat burned. He tried to combat it, breathing deeply helped a little, but the pain was still awful.  
  
“Sherlock?” John murmured sleepily, “You’re breathing funny, what’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing,” Sherlock bit out, and then deciding that if he was keeping John awake anyway, he may as well get something to ease the heartburn so that they could _both_ get to sleep.  
  
Sherlock clicked on the lamp next to his bed and reached over to open the drawer of the bedside table. Under the condoms and lube were some antacids. He dislodged John’s arm to sit up and take one.  
  
“Heartburn?” John asked, sitting up behind Sherlock.  
  
“Mmm,” Sherlock said in affirmation, mouth already filling with minty foam from the white disk.  
  
“Was it the food?” John asked when Sherlock had swallowed.  
  
“No,” Sherlock lied.   
  
“Sherlock,” John said, tone clearly stating that he hadn’t bought it.  
  
Sherlock sighed. “Onions,” he said.  
  
John rubbed Sherlock’s back gently, “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have just left them out.”  
  
“It’s not a big deal,” Sherlock said, lying down. John settled down with him.  
  
“Hmm, well now that I know, next time no onions,” John said, curling around Sherlock again.  
  
Sherlock clicked off the lamp. He was surprised John had taken that so well. While his heartburn wasn’t completely gone, Sherlock could ignore it and eventually fell asleep.  
  
+  
  
Sherlock woke with a painfully bloated stomach and John’s fingers dancing over it which under any other circumstances would have been ticklish, but the pain rather cancelled that out. Sherlock could tell from John’s breathing that John was already awake and as soon as Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, John knew Sherlock was awake too.  
  
“Have you put on weight?” was the first thing John said, and Sherlock bristled at that.  
  
“No,” Sherlock said, voice clipped.  
  
John pulled back the duvet and looked at Sherlock’s stomach.  
  
“You’re bloated,” John said, fingers trailing from the bottom of Sherlock’s stomach up to his ribs, tracing the new outline of Sherlock’s extended stomach..  
  
Sherlock wondered whether John was being purposefully thick or was trying to annoy him somehow. Revenge for mentioning the onions?  
  
“Obviously,” was Sherlock’s reply.  
  
“Sore?” John asked, spreading his hand flat over Sherlock’s stomach.  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock bit out, patience completely shattered what with the pain and John’s stupid questions.  
  
“I’m sorry,” John said, rubbing his hand lightly over Sherlock’s stomach, sounding very much sympathetic. John’s hand was warm and unexpectedly it helped take the edge off the pain and as those sharp little knives abated Sherlock realised he was far more irritable from the pain than from John’s questions.  
  
Sherlock felt himself relaxing, John’s hand amazingly soothing as he stroked circles into Sherlock’s stomach. As the pain receded pressure began to build low in Sherlock’s abdomen and Sherlock soon realised that it was a build up of gas. He was debating leaving the room when John pressed a little too hard, just below Sherlock’s navel.  
  
The sound that followed wasn’t actually that loud, but to Sherlock it was deafening.  
  
“Did you just fart?” John exclaimed before bursting into a fit of giggles.  
  
Sherlock’s face burned as blood rushed to his cheeks and he turned his face into his pillow, mortified. John’s giggling took a long time to die down and Sherlock felt a storm of shame and embarrassment awash inside him. He would have left the bed if it weren’t for the fact that his stomach was still sore. It also, somehow, would have felt more undignified.  
  
Finally John calmed down enough to say, “I’m sorry. Really. It’s just that it’s _you_ , the great Sherlock Holmes and it turns out you’re human after all.” John giggled his way through the sentence.  
  
Sherlock didn’t respond, anger tinting the edges of his emotions. He didn’t like being laughed at.  
  
“I’m sorry,” John said again, this time more believably and reached out to put his hand back on Sherlock’s stomach.  
  
“Don’t,” Sherlock snapped, pulling away from John and moving towards the edge of the bed. It was much colder there, away from his own warm spot and John’s body heat.  
  
“Sherlock,” John inched closer to Sherlock, “Look, I really am sorry.”  
  
John put his hand back on Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock stiffened.  
  
“Does it hurt, if I touch you like that?” John asked.  
  
“No,” Sherlock grumbled, actually enjoying having John’s heat back.  
  
John began making slow circles with his hand again. More tentatively he asked, “Does it help?”  
  
Sherlock took a moment to answer. “Yes.”  
  
John gave a small smile, “Okay, I’m going to keep doing this then, and you only have to relax. Try to remember that bodily functions really don’t bother me, being a doctor and being in the army killed the very small amount of modesty I had to begin with.”   
  
Sherlock didn’t say anything to that, just closed his eyes and as John instructed, he tried to relax. John kept up his soothing circles and the pain ebbed away, morphing into just plain uncomfortable, and lessening even then.  
  
Eventually Sherlock said, “Bloody onions,” and it was in essence a mixture of forgiveness and apology.  
  
John smiled, “Definitely leaving the onions out next time.”  
  
\+   
  
The following weeks were good, Sherlock only had the barest amount of pain which wasn’t enough to put a dampener on any part of his life. Lestrade had a few cases for him, nothing that took more than two days to solve, but it was better than nothing. Crime had become a lot less interesting since Moriarty had been dealt with but Sherlock was happier for himself and John to be in less life threatening situations.   
  
The first time Sherlock fucked John was after a particularly high adrenalin fuelled case which had culminated in a mad race through the back-alleys of London, running after a man who had used a cash-in-transit heist to cover up tax fraud and upon questioning had made a dash for it.   
  
John and Sherlock returned home, laughing and panting, hearts still pounding from the chase. John began kissing Sherlock desperately and it felt like seconds in Sherlock’s lust fogged brain before they were naked and John had produced a condom and lube from god knows where.   
  
At John’s insistence, Sherlock prepared John quickly. Sherlock was awed at how easily John opened up underneath his fingers, so soft and velvety and warm around him that Sherlock ached to know how it would feel like around his cock.  
  
Soon John was moaning, “Fuck me, Sherlock. Please. I can’t wait. I need you.”  
  
It was music to Sherlock’s ears and he had to take a second to recompose himself after rolling on the condom before he plunged into John, taking him right there on the living room floor, hard and fast, sweat slicking their bodies.  
  
The moans that sprung from John’s mouth on each thrust were filthy and Sherlock found himself hanging onto the brink of orgasm for dear life. He wrapped his hand around John’s cock, wanking him furiously which, if it was possible, made John moan even more.  
  
John came with a sudden shout, muscles gripping tight around Sherlock as ropes of come splattered onto John’s chest. Sherlock followed quickly, losing his rhythm, his hips jerking as he emptied himself.  
  
“Fantastic,” John panted as Sherlock collapsed on top of him.  
  
“Mmm,” Sherlock agreed.   
  
“Heavy,” John said moments later, rolling Sherlock off him.  
  
Sherlock laughed.  
  
Life in general was better with John, especially the time in between cases which while boring before were now filled with sex and sometimes just cuddles and being _together_.  
  
+  
  
It was between cases that Sherlock woke up with John pressing kisses to his shoulders and running his hand down Sherlock’s side and onto his hip. John was pressed up against Sherlock’s back and Sherlock could feel that John was already very hard. Sherlock wasn’t too far away from hard either.  
  
“I want you,” John said, his voice deep with desire and rough with having woken up only recently. It made Sherlock’s heart thump.  
  
“Yes,” was Sherlock’s response, canting his hips back so that he rubbed John’s erection.  
  
John wasted no time in grabbing the lube and slicking Sherlock up. Sherlock relaxed easily under John’s skilled digits, but John fingered him for far longer than was necessary, until Sherlock was keening for John to fuck him.  
  
Eventually John had mercy and pushed Sherlock onto his stomach before putting on a condom and plunging into him. It felt good, more than good, to finally have John inside him and Sherlock groaned.  
  
But then John settled himself fully on top of Sherlock, lying on him with almost his full weight. It would have been fine, brilliant to be so possessed by John, except for that it put pressure on Sherlock’s stomach. It started as a dull ache, but with each of John’s thrusts it got worse. Sherlock tried to ignore it, because John was so hot and hard inside him, growling filthy things into Sherlock’s ear that would have made pleasure curl in the base of his spine except that Sherlock was distracted by the ever increasing pain. It wasn’t enough to tell John to stop, but it was too much to really enjoy himself.  
  
Sherlock tried to focus on John, who was so passionate above him, completely oblivious to Sherlock’s problem. Not the Sherlock blamed him, it was Sherlock’s own defection that was the problem, John had no idea that his lover was awkwardly ill _all the time_ and that something as simple as lying on his stomach was a problem.  
  
 _God_ it made Sherlock so angry that his body was so pathetic, that there wasn’t a single thing that wasn’t ruined by this stupid illness.  
  
“Oh god, I’m going to come,” John moaned in Sherlock’s ear.  
  
“Yes, come,” Sherlock said, grateful that John was close, that they’d be finished soon. Sherlock wanted to get to the cuddling part, where he could arrange them so that he wasn’t sore. He’d lost his erection long ago and he wasn’t interested in trying to re-excite himself. He just wanted John’s arms around him because it’s easier for his brain to turn off like that, where he doesn’t have to think about his stupid stomach and stupid nervous system and he can forget for a while. Partly because it’s _John_ , who has always been unexpectedly brilliant at comforting Sherlock and making his mind quiet, and partly because John didn’t _know_ that Sherlock was ill, so Sherlock could pretend that nothing was wrong with him, helped on by John’s ignorance.   
  
John was ejaculating then, moaning and shoving himself into Sherlock and finally stilling, panting into Sherlock’s ear. But John didn’t stay still long, he pulled out of Sherlock and flipped him over, immediately kissing him and attacking Sherlock’s neck with his mouth and then his hand went seeking for Sherlock’s erection. When he didn’t find it straight away John pulled back and looked down.  
  
“Did you already come?” John asked, wrapping his hand around Sherlock’s cock anyway and Sherlock could see the hope in his eyes.  
  
Sherlock wished he could say yes, but John isn’t that stupid, the cock John was holding in his hand was not a cock that had recently ejaculated and the lack of semen was a dead giveaway.  
  
Sherlock’s voice stuck in his throat, so he just shook his head.  
  
“Wasn’t it good for you?” John asked, his face showing every emotion, wounded pride, worry, self-doubt.  
  
“You were fine, John,” Sherlock said, “It was me.”  
  
“It’s not you, it’s me?” John scoffed, looking more than a little hurt. He let go of Sherlock then, moving to the other side of the bed.  
  
“Really,” Sherlock said, using a corner of the duvet to cover his lap because John’s eyes kept flicking to his soft penis worriedly. “I just have a stomach ache.”  
  
It was true, despite no longer lying on his front, Sherlock’s stomach was still sore.  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me?” John said, brow furrowed.   
  
“Because you were enjoying yourself,” and Sherlock saw immediately that it was been the wrong thing to say. John looked offended now.  
  
“What, and you thought I just wouldn’t care?” John said, voice raised.  
  
“No, I just…” Sherlock trailed off. He didn’t know why he hadn’t asked John to stop. Maybe because he didn’t want to see John disappointed or angry like Victor had been. But Sherlock couldn’t say that, not least because that would mean admitting that asking his partner to stop during sex was a common thing and that would lead John too close to the truth, but also because Sherlock knew that John _wouldn’t_ have reacted like Victor had. Sherlock didn’t hold out any hope that John wouldn’t eventually leave him, but he wouldn’t be as callous as Victor had been, Sherlock knew now.  
  
“Jesus, Sherlock,” John said, shaking his head furiously and getting out of bed. He pulled on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt and left the room without a backwards glance. A few moments later Sherlock heard John banging about in the kitchen, clearly making tea. Angrily.  
  
Sherlock sighed and got out of bed too. He went into his bathroom and opened the cupboard, reaching into the back where he stashed his painkillers. Sherlock wanted to get rid of the ache in his stomach, no matter what it did to his thought processors. In fact, thinking a little more simply for a while sounded rather good at that point.


	6. Chapter 6

John stopped initiating sex after that morning. They didn’t talk about it, John waiting for Sherlock to come to him with an explanation and Sherlock not having an explanation he could give. It was up to Sherlock to initiate sex between them, which was rare because Sherlock still wasn’t exactly sure how to go about it and had also promised himself that he wouldn’t have sex unless he was feeling well, which wasn’t often at all. Sherlock had decided that more for John than for himself. Sherlock didn’t mind not achieving orgasm during sex, sometimes just the feel of his partner was enough. Also, Sherlock was used to doing everything else while he was in pain and sex was just one more thing. But clearly John was upset, so Sherlock did his best to accommodate that.  
  
In the weeks that followed Sherlock’s stomach took a turn for the worse again, it seemed there wasn’t a single safe food to eat and the pain was so horrible that Sherlock didn’t go a day without painkillers even when on a case.  
  
John noticed. _Of course_ he noticed. He was still sleeping with Sherlock every night, even though they weren’t having sex, but even if they had just stayed flatmates, John would have noticed anyway. As it was, he just noticed _more_ because he was there when Sherlock was trying to find a comfortable way to lie down that didn’t hurt as much, he was there when Sherlock used breathing techniques to deal with the pain when the painkillers weren’t enough and he saw every time Sherlock had to dash off to the bathroom. John saw, and John wasn’t stupid, he knew something was wrong, and Sherlock was just waiting for John to bring it up, to finally get fed up with Sherlock.  
  
It all came to a head when Lestrade had an interesting case for Sherlock and Sherlock was having a _particularly_ bad day. A triple murder, three different parts of London, three people with no obvious connection except the cause of death: an ‘X’ cut into their chests, most likely made with a mechanical saw.  
  
Three different locations meant a lot of driving from place to place and Sherlock had to make frequent stops to go to the toilet despite having taken as much Imodium as it was safe to take. The painkillers had done nothing to take the edge off the pain and Sherlock was finding it very hard to focus on the crime scenes.  
  
Sherlock soldiered through, snapping at anyone who interrupted him, scowling the entire time, thoroughly frustrated because he was sure he was missing at least half of the evidence that would normally jump out at him. He was pale and so incredibly tired that despite the pain he fell asleep in the cab on the way to the third and final crime scene.  
  
Sherlock arrived knowing he’d have to find a toilet soon and he tried to go through the crime scene as quickly as possibly. He kept getting derailed by intrusive cramps and the ever growing panic in the back of his mind that said, _“Find a toilet NOW!”_ He pulled his coat closer around him, trying to use the warmth to settle his stomach but it was no use.  
  
It was becoming obvious to everyone that Sherlock was distracted and while Lestrade looked equal parts annoyed and concerned and Donovan clicked her tongue impatiently, Anderson made some snarky comment about needing to go to Sherlock’s flat for another drugs bust.  
  
“That’s enough!” John eventually yelled, and everyone, including Sherlock turned to stare.  
  
“Right,” John said, “Sherlock and I are going home.”  
  
Lestrade opened his mouth to protest but John held up a hand.  
  
“Sherlock,” John said in a tone the brooked no argument, “Is ill. We are going home, and when Sherlock is better he can help you.”  
  
Sherlock felt oddly relieved at this. Admitting that he needed to go home would be admitting weakness. He did his best to keep his IBS from stopping him from doing things and it felt far too much like failure to go home on his own volition. But with John insisting… Well, it felt a lot like permission from a parent to stay home from school, without having to ask. There was no decision to be made. It was freeing to let John take control and with the backing of a medical degree, he had _authority_.  
  
“The freak does look pretty bad,” Donovan said begrudgingly, only then actually taking in Sherlock’s appearance.  
  
When Sherlock didn’t say anything to protest, Lestrade said, “Yes, fine, take him home then, Doctor.”  
  
“Thank you,” John said, not sounding in the least bit courteous and then grabbed Sherlock’s arm and led him out the room.  
  
“Alright?” John asked when they were out of earshot.  
  
“I need to find a loo,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth, “Now.”  
  
John scanned the street. “Restaurant,” He said, pointing to the right, “I’ll order something if I have to.”  
  
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, already walking quickly towards it, grimacing all the way.  
  
When they eventually made it home John sent Sherlock into his bedroom to change into his pyjamas while John made him tea. Sherlock was relieved to be home, the knot of anxiety loosening at the knowledge that he had an easily available toilet.  
  
Sherlock was already curled up in bed trying to relax when John came back in with a cup of tea. He had the beginnings of a nasty a headache, a combination of dehydration and from holding his muscles stiff to keep from jostling his stomach. John sat on the bed next to Sherlock and put the tea on the bedside table. He was silent at first, but it was the type of silence that happens before someone broaches a difficult topic.  
  
 _This is it, then_ Sherlock thought to himself.  
  
“Have you seen a doctor?” John asked eventually.  
  
“It’s just gastroenteritis,” Sherlock said, hoping he could put John off.  
  
“Don’t play games Sherlock, you and I both know it’s more than that. You could be seriously ill! A stomach ulcer, IBD, Celiac Disease, Crohn’s-”  
  
“IBS,” Sherlock cut in venomously.  
  
“Yes, could be-” John started, but Sherlock cut him off again.  
  
“No,” Sherlock said, “That wasn’t a suggestion. I’m telling you.”  
  
“You have Irritable Bowel Syndrome?” John asked.  
  
The irony that they were in the exact same positions as when John first kissed him was not lost on Sherlock. It seemed almost fitting that the beginning and the end would happen in the same place. Even if John didn’t break up with him immediately, their relationship was about to change for the worse. Sherlock could see it before him like it was a crime scene; John would try and deal with it, would feel guilty for viewing Sherlock differently and as time went on he’d get more and more irritated with Sherlock. He’d try and fix Sherlock, diet plans that wouldn’t work and recommendations to see a psychologist and eventually he’d get fed up and leave, because Sherlock wouldn’t get any better and once John had put that much effort in and Sherlock was still just as sick as before he’d think that Sherlock liked being sick, or was doing it to spite him.  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock answered, trying to keep emotion from his voice.  
  
“Okay,” John said, “Are you taking anything for it?”  
  
Sherlock listed his medication, keeping his eyes down. It was a cowardly move, but he didn’t want to see scorn on John’s face yet.  
  
“Some of those can be habit forming,” John said, and although his voice was level, Sherlock couldn’t help but think it was an accusation.  
  
“I’m aware,” he said, trying to keep from sounding defensive, “I don’t take them nearly often enough for that to be a problem.”  
  
“Alright. Probiotics?” John asked, and Sherlock realised he was getting John’s ‘doctor’ voice.  
  
Sherlock mourned the loss of intimacy he felt at that. It made John feel so far away, that he was acting as a doctor and not as a partner. Funny, that less than an hour before Sherlock had been happy that John had used his authority as a doctor. But it felt different here, in their flat, in their _bed_. Sherlock realised he’d been hoping against hope that John would be different, that John would surprise him once again and offer him the comfort and sympathy that he’d never, ever experienced. Sherlock was disappointed. Disappointed that John didn’t live up to his expectations, yes, but mostly disappointed that he’d allowed himself to hope at all. Sherlock suddenly wished that he hadn’t separated John from Victor so much; true, John wasn’t being nearly as callous as Victor had been, but the end result would be the same.  
  
“Probiotics don’t work. I’ve tried everything, I know what foods I can and can’t eat, I manage this as best I can. This is the best and healthiest I can be,” Sherlock said, resigned. He’d told John when they had first met that flatmates should know the worst of each other and now, with their changed relationship he had given up his final secret. John now knew the worst of him.  
  
“Right,” John said, then nodded towards the tea, “You should drink something, you’re probably dehydrated.”


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock watched John like a hawk after that, he didn’t want to be taken by surprise when John broke up with him, and if he started to see the signs then there was a possibility of convincing John otherwise before he did. Obviously it would be a temporary solution, but Sherlock would do anything to keep John for just a little longer. In turn, Sherlock noticed that John was watching him. Sherlock couldn’t help but feel that John was cataloguing everything Sherlock ate, when he took his meds and when he was showing signs of pain and _didn’t_ take his meds. John still hadn’t found a job, which meant that he was around Sherlock all day. There was nothing that Sherlock could hide from John now.  
  
It made Sherlock uneasy, wondering what John was thinking as he watched Sherlock. Did he look at what Sherlock ate and think, “Well that’s unhealthy” or “He shouldn’t be eating that, because _everyone_ with IBS reacts badly to it”? Even though the latter was blatantly untrue, it hadn’t stopped previous doctors of Sherlock’s saying it. Did John think Sherlock took painkillers too often? Was he looking for a drug dependency? Or did he think Sherlock should be taking them more often, that if he just medicated himself properly then he wouldn’t have an issue?  
  
It was frustrating for Sherlock that he couldn’t read John. Sherlock was generally quite good at deducing what people thought or felt, despite what certain members of the police force might say. But John was a mystery to him except that Sherlock was sure that what ever John was thinking it was _not good_ for Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock hadn’t yet had a day without pain or diarrhoea and it was seriously taking its toll on Sherlock. He was absolutely exhausted and could _feel_ that his brain wasn’t working nearly as well as it should, everything about him felt sluggish, including his thoughts. He hadn’t been able to help Lestrade although Lestrade did eventually solve the case on his own. It had taken him much longer than if Sherlock had been involved but even though Sherlock liked to call them idiots, New Scotland Yard weren’t completely incompetent. Lestrade had texted him the details; all three victims were a part of a support group for people living with STD’s and had been targeted by some nutjob who had decided that he was doing the world a favour by getting rid of, in his words, ‘the unclean’, marking them with an ‘X’ so that everyone would know.  
  
Sherlock had gotten the text while he and John were watching a movie at home; John was on a mission to educate Sherlock in popular culture. Normally they’d be curled up together on the couch, but things were too strained for that. They were awkwardly sitting next to each other, just not touching. Before, the space between them would have been charged with sexual energy and within minutes they’d be wrapped around each other like a couple of teenagers. Instead the space was filled with unspoken conversations and unease.  
  
Sherlock felt his stomach roil again and winced as he got up to go to the bathroom. On a whim, he glanced back at John as he left the room. John was frowning, and Sherlock immediately felt his stomach drop. So the irritation phase had started. Sherlock had expected a doctor stage first, where John would try and make Sherlock better. Maybe as a doctor, John was even less tolerant of an ill partner. But there was something else there too. Sadness, perhaps. But why would John be sad? Sherlock assumed it was because John felt bad that he was irritated with Sherlock. Or maybe, John was already reaching the end of his tether and felt guilty that he wanted to break up with Sherlock. John himself had said that he hated breaking up with people.  
  
Sherlock would have to think of something to stop John from breaking up with him. He’d have to try and please John in some way. With Victor, Sherlock had done his best to act normal, eating food despite the consequences, going out, having sex, it all worked with Victor. But John wouldn’t buy it if Sherlock suddenly seemed better, went back to hiding his IBS. With John it was less about a business like exchange than with Victor, if Sherlock acted normal then Victor would stay, sometimes even be affectionate with Sherlock, if Sherlock had been particularly good. No, things with John were based on an emotional connection and Sherlock would need to reignite that if he wanted to hang on to John.   
  
Intimacy. That’s what he and John had been missing. They hadn’t had sex in ages and it had been weeks since they’d even cuddled. Come to think of it, it had been a long time since John had even touched him. John had been so happy after the first time they’d had sex. As Sherlock had observed then, it symbolised commitment; sex and emotion were intertwined for John. Sherlock needed to recapture that.  
  
Sherlock put more effort into hiding his symptoms the next day, trying to make it look like he was on an up-swing. He hadn’t realised just how physically demonstrative he’d been about his symptoms since John found out until he consciously started hiding them again. When John shot him speculative but relieved looks, Sherlock knew he was succeeding in convincing John that he was feeling better.  
  
When they got into bed that night Sherlock crawled over to John’s side and began kissing him. It felt like forever since they had last kissed and Sherlock was amazed at just how much he’d missed it. John was immediately responsive, sighing into Sherlock’s mouth and wrapping his arms around Sherlock. Despite how lovely it felt, and Sherlock would have been happy to just carry on kissing John for the rest of the night, Sherlock wouldn’t let it distract him from his goal. Sherlock rolled over and pulled John on top of him.  
  
“Let’s have sex,” Sherlock said, smiling up at John and trying to suppress his nerves. He’d done this many times with Victor, sex when his stomach was that sore, he could do it with John, previous promises to himself be damned.  
  
“Are you sure you’re well enough?” John said frowning, although his concern didn’t stop his hips from nestling against Sherlock’s and Sherlock could feel that John was getting hard.  
  
“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, then added, “Come on, it’s been ages!”  
  
John nodded and then set about taking both of their pyjamas off. Sherlock was happy to let John take the lead, it made it easier to focus on sensation and forget the pain. He’d need to be able to sustain an erection and ejaculate if he was going to make John happy.  
  
John didn’t rush it, he took his time in re-exploring Sherlock’s body and Sherlock was pleased to find himself responding easily. It wasn’t until John’s fingers were slick with lube and touching his anus that Sherlock encountered a problem. He felt far too sensitive there and jerked away with a hiss before he could stop himself. He quickly told John to carry on but his own sharp movement made his stomach cramp again and Sherlock was suddenly filled with fear that he’d have an accident while John was fucking him.   
  
“Stop, stop!” Sherlock said, pushing John away. John looked alarmed.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, already feeling an intense sense of loss and failure.  
  
“What’s wrong?” John asked.  
  
“I can’t,” Sherlock said looking at the ceiling, “Too sore.”  
  
John was silent for a moment before flopping down onto the bed next to Sherlock with a sigh. A glance told Sherlock that John was still exceptionally hard. Sherlock was instantly angry. The sigh had been too reminiscent of Victor. Normally Sherlock would have given Victor a blowjob if he couldn’t have sex, but Sherlock didn’t want that with John. He didn’t want to have to appease him, or beg him to stay, even if the begging wasn’t verbal. He didn’t want to feel guilty for not being able to have sex or not being able to eat something or for just experiencing pain. He didn’t want to lie to John about how he was feeling.  
  
“Sherlock,” John began, Sherlock’s name coming out as a sigh as well.  
  
Sherlock didn’t let him say anything else, “I think you should sleep in your own bed, John.”  
  
Sherlock sounded cold, even to himself, but the thought of lying next to John and John’s fucking erection made Sherlock want to throw things and Sherlock just wanted to be left in peace, so he could take his pills without feeling judged and hopefully get some sleep.  
  
“Sherlock,” John said again, this time beseechingly but Sherlock turned onto his side, his back facing John.   
  
“Just go,” Sherlock said, voice hard. With another sigh John left.  
  
Sherlock didn’t get much sleep that night; he was far too angry, mostly with himself for pushing things, but also with John. That sigh. That god awful sigh that made Sherlock immediately feel like he had to apologise, beg Victor’s forgiveness. _John’s_ forgiveness. Beg _John’s_ forgiveness.  
  
As the night wore on his anger faded and was replaced by worry. Worse than worry, it bordered on fear, that John was going to leave him. Possibly even the next day. It would be soon at any rate, if not for stopping them from having sex then most certainly because Sherlock lied about feeling better. It was all happening far too quickly. Sherlock had expected John to last longer. Christ, his messy relationship with Victor had lasted almost two years; he’d only been with John for three months.  
  
As morning arrived after Sherlock’s fitful sleep, Sherlock merely felt resigned. He was too tired to fight. If John wanted to break up then so be it. It would hurt and Sherlock would miss him, not that Sherlock would admit that to anyone, but Sherlock had been alone before and he could be alone again. It might be a blessing to just be left alone again. At least he still had his work.  
  
Just after seven Sherlock got up. He didn’t bother changing, just went into the living room in his pyjamas and turned on his laptop. He’d check emails and his website until John came down. Better to get it over and done with quickly. Luckily John wasn’t a late sleeper.  
  
Sherlock heard the front door open and close and then footfalls on the stairs. There was only one person who walked like that: Mycroft. Sherlock scowled. The last thing he needed was Mycroft nosing around.  
  
“Sherlock,” Mycroft said with a thin smile as he entered the room.  
  
“What do you want?” Sherlock bit out. Of course Mycroft would choose the worst possible time to visit. He’d probably done it on purpose.  
  
“Really, Sherlock,” Mycroft admonished, taking a seat in the chair opposite Sherlock, “I merely came by to inform you of my progress on the Moriarty situation.”  
  
“And?” Sherlock asked, slightly nervous.  
  
“And his organisation and all its affiliates have been taken care of. There is no longer any threat from him or any of his associates, I just finished wrapping up the loose ends last night,” Mycroft sounded smug.  
  
“Good,” Sherlock said, losing interest in Mycroft, “Now leave.”  
  
“You’re rather tense this morning,” Mycroft showed no sign on getting up, “Trouble with the good doctor I imagine. I had noticed that you two had become rather… close.”  
  
Sherlock didn’t answer. There was no point, clearly Mycroft had come to say something and wouldn’t leave until he had. Sherlock felt a sharp pain in his stomach and grimaced before he could stop himself.  
  
“Ah,” Mycroft continued, “I had hoped that your relationship with John would have put an end to this nonsense, but I see you persist in playing the wounded lamb. Mummy will be upset. I can’t imagine John is particularly happy about it. He was _so angry_ with himself for his own psychosomatic problem, he must be so disappointed in you.”  
  
“Fuck off!” Sherlock snarled, hating Mycroft for being right.  
  
“That’s your problem, Sherlock. You’ve always been so self-destructive. You should have learnt your lesson after Victor broke up with you all those years ago, yet you insist on clinging to your fake illness. It really is time for you to grow up-” Mycroft was interrupted by a loud clearing of someone’s throat.  
  
Sherlock looked up; John was standing in the doorway, face stony.  
  
“I think you should leave, Mycroft,” John said, voice low but clear.  
  
“Now John,” Mycroft said with a dangerous smile, but John cut in again ignoring the threat Mycroft potentially posed.  
  
“I have asked you to leave, I expect you to comply. You do not get to come into _our_ home and insult Sherlock like that,” John’s voice was rising now, “I would have thought a clever bloke like you would know better, but allow me to educate you, since you’re clearly so spectacularly ignorant.”  
  
Mycroft spluttered at the insult but John ignored him.   
  
“Irritable bowel syndrome is _not_ psychosomatic and there is a lot of medical research to back that up. Sherlock struggles every day to be able to function like a normal human being. If you think your sodding diets are hard work then imagine what it’s like when food can cause you so much pain that you can’t get up. And then to have to deal with idiots like you?! I don’t know why I’m even bothering to explain this to you because you clearly couldn’t care given the way you were going on at Sherlock. Now GET OUT!”  
  
“Really, John, this isn’t necessary,” Mycroft said, but he was getting up and leaving.  
  
“I think Sherlock said it perfectly, earlier: Fuck off!”  
  
Mycroft left, but Sherlock barely paid him any attention. His eyes were on John. _John_. Sherlock felt numb. Empty. Why was John defending him? Sherlock didn’t understand. How could John say those things? Did he believe them? And if so, why had he been acting the way he had. Sherlock’s mind raced, thoughts jumbled. He felt hollow.  
  
“Sherlock?” John squatted down so that he was more level with Sherlock, “Are you alright?”  
  
“What? Yes. It’s just… You told Mycroft to fuck off!” a laugh escaped Sherlock, but he sobered quickly, “Why did you do that?”  
  
John frowned, “Because he deserved it. You do know that he was wrong, yeah?”  
  
“Well, yes, but most other people don’t,” Sherlock said.  
  
“I am a doctor, you know,” John said with a half smile. Sherlock scowled.  
  
“Ah,” John said, “Some bad experiences with doctors, then?”  
  
“You might say that,” Sherlock mumbled.  
  
“I think I understand you a bit better now,” John said.  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“Come here,” John said, leaning up to wrap his arms around Sherlock.  
  
He held Sherlock tightly for a while and Sherlock returned the grip. Sherlock felt the turmoil inside himself settle. John was still there. John had defended him against Mycroft. John had said that IBS was _not_ psychosomatic.   
  
“I love you Sherlock,” John whispered, squeezing Sherlock even tighter, “I’ve been wanting to say that to you for ages, but I can’t think of a better time than now.”  
  
Sherlock’s heart gave an extra hard thump at John’s words. Love wasn’t a possibility that had even entered Sherlock’s mind. Sherlock had always been of the belief that if you loved someone that it would be obvious and there’s no need to say it out loud. But hearing John say the words? It _meant_ something to Sherlock. It meant a great deal, in fact.  
  
Sherlock’s voice was croaky with emotion, “I love you, too.”  
  
“I’ve been watching you,” John said, “I’ve seen how hard you try. Everyday. It breaks my heart. And then hearing Mycroft saying those things? Well, I get now why you’ve been so closed with me.”  
  
Sherlock felt a lump form in his throat and gripped John tighter.  
  
John and Sherlock eventually moved to the couch and at John’s insistence, they talked. John explained that he’d been keeping his distance from Sherlock because he had thought that was what Sherlock had wanted. And with careful prodding from John, Sherlock explained his family’s view on IBS (John muttered angrily through this), he talked about the many doctors he’d seen who had insisted it was all in his head (John shook his head furiously) and then Sherlock told John about Victor. Sherlock had never seen John so angry. John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders when Sherlock had finished and made Sherlock promise that he would never have sex unless _he_ wanted to and if he ever felt pressured by John that he would say something about it. Sherlock agreed, feeling like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.   
  
They talked until John’s stomach started to rumble and he got up to make breakfast. Over breakfast John asked Sherlock more details about his IBS, specifically what foods were safe and what were not. Sherlock had been a little defensive at first, but John’s easy going nature and supportiveness soon soothed him. Sherlock was then able to tactfully mention other things which could cause him problems, such as certain positions during sex, or any pressure on his stomach for that matter. John nodded acceptingly the entire time.  
  
After breakfast John suggested they watch a movie together and Sherlock was grateful that they wouldn’t have to talk anymore. It had been surprisingly draining, telling John what was basically his life’s story. It had brought up a lot of emotions he’d thought were long since buried, mostly anger at being treated so poorly by the people he should have been able to trust, and hurt and disappointed too.  
  
Ten minutes into the movie Sherlock fell asleep with his head in John’s lap and John’s fingers running through his hair.  
  
Later that night, when Sherlock and John climbed into bed, they lay together, John spooned up behind Sherlock his arms wrapped around Sherlock’s chest so as not to hurt Sherlock’s stomach.  
  
+  
  
Two days later John was going through the mail.  
  
“What’s in the letter?” Sherlock asked, when John went suddenly still after reading it.  
  
“It’s a job offer,” John sounded sceptical.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yeah. Good pay, flexible hours, and it’s close,” John said, shaking his head.  
  
“Well, that’s good isn’t it?” Sherlock said, though his eyes were fixed on his laptop.  
  
“Yeah, except I didn’t apply for it. Last I heard, this practice didn’t have any openings,” John frowned.  
  
“Let me see that,” Sherlock said, suddenly next to John. He grabbed the letter and read through it quickly.  
  
“Mycroft,” Sherlock said lowly.  
  
“Well then,” John said curtly, heading to the kitchen to make tea.  
  
Sherlock’s mobile beeped, indicating that he had a message.  
  
“A new case?” John called.  
  
“No, it’s from Mycroft,” Sherlock frowned.  
  
“Oh. I thought he didn’t text?” John said, voice raised to be heard over the bubbling of the kettle.  
  
“He doesn’t. Normally.”  
  
“So what does he want then?”  
  
“To… apologise,” Sherlock said, then read the text out loud, “ _Sherlock, Our encounter two days ago was regrettable. I fear I’ve been blind all these years to your suffering, and for that I am truly sorry. Please see John’s job offer as a token of my gratitude to him for forcing me to open my eyes. MH_ ”  
  
“Wow,” John said, sitting down in his chair and taking a sip from his mug.   
  
“Indeed,” Sherlock responded.  
  
“So now what?” John asked.  
  
“No harm in taking the job. May as well take advantage of Mycroft’s contriteness,” Sherlock said, trying to sound disinterested. He didn’t want to let on just how much Mycroft’s apology had meant to him. It didn’t erase the past, but it was a step in the right direction at least.  
  
“Yeah, alright,” John said with a smile.  
  
“John?” Sherlock asked a while later.  
  
“Hmm?” John said, not looking up from the crossword he was now doing.  
  
“You didn’t have anything to do with Mycroft’s about face, beyond shouting at him, did you?” Sherlock watched John closely.  
  
“Well,” John said, looking up at Sherlock with a half smile, “I may have sent him a few medical journals on the subject.”  
  
Sherlock got up and went over to John, taking the crossword from John and putting it aside before climbing into his lap.  
  
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, then kissed John deeply.  
  
When they broke the kiss John said, “It was the least I could do. If I could take away your IBS I would do so in a heartbeat. But I’ll have to settle with doing the best I can to make your life easier. I’ll always be here for you, and by the sounds of things, Mycroft will come around too.”  
  
Sherlock rested his head on John’s shoulder and hugged him. Sherlock hadn’t realised how much lighter he felt now that he had someone supporting him. To know that he didn’t have to face his condition alone felt rather freeing. It wouldn’t make him better, he’d still be in as much pain, he’d still having problems with eating certain things, he’d still have to make mad dashes to the loo, but now he had someone who’s cover for him, who’d make sure that Sherlock had something that he could eat, who’d keep him company when he couldn’t get out of bed, or would be in the lounge when Sherlock needed him, mindful of giving Sherlock some privacy. John had promised him that.  
  
Sherlock couldn’t describe how he felt about it because there were far too many complicated, enormous, intricate feelings and words would never come close to explaining them.  
  
“You’re brilliant,” Sherlock said to John, holding him closer.


	8. Epilogue

Sherlock woke up with John curled up against him, head resting on Sherlock’s chest, their legs tangled. Sherlock was hard, and by the feel of it John was too, his hips nestled against Sherlock’s leg. This was the first time since their big discussion, when Sherlock had found out that John _wasn’t_ going to leave him, that Sherlock had felt well enough for anything sexual and he was going to take advantage of that.  
  
Sherlock stroked John’s side, smiling when John snuffled contentedly and leaned into his touch. Sherlock moved his hand lower and lower until he reached the edge of John’s shirt and pulled it up to expose skin. He placed his hand on John’s lower back and ran his fingertips over the soft skin. He loved touching John there, it was always a fascinating experience. It was one of the softest parts of John’s body, the skin was always warm and covered in the finest downy hairs, almost invisible to the eye but tactilely wonderful. Then there was John’s reaction when Sherlock touched him there. John relaxed against him like a rag doll at first, letting out a soft sigh. But then there was this spot, just above John’s bum crack, that when Sherlock ran his fingers over it John’s hips jerked.  
  
Sherlock did it then, touched that spot and John pressed his erection into Sherlock’s leg. Sherlock pressed back and John woke with a pleased moan.  
  
“Good morning,” John said, voice croaky but Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice.  
  
“It is, isn’t it,” Sherlock said, shifting his thigh against John’s cock again, pleased when succeeded in making John’s breath hitch.  
  
Sherlock rearranged John then, pulling John on top of him so that their pelvises met. John immediately pushed himself up with his hands so that he wasn’t putting any pressure on Sherlock’s stomach.  
  
“How are you feeling today?” John asked.  
  
“Fine,” Sherlock said, leaning up to kiss John. But John pulled away as soon as it got heated.  
  
“You’re sure?” John frowned.  
  
“Yes. I’m well enough to have sex, John, and what’s more, I really, really want to,” Sherlock smirked as he rolled his hips up against John and John’s eyes fluttered closed for a second. John opened his eyes to study Sherlock.  
  
“You know that you can say no at anytime. I won’t be mad or anything,” John said earnestly.  
  
“Yes, I know,” Sherlock said, not sure whether to be exasperated or touched by John’s over-cautiousness.  
  
“Promise?” John asked.  
  
“I promise,” Sherlock responded, kissing John again.  
  
John seemed satisfied by this and finally kissed Sherlock back properly. They took their time re-exploring each other and slowly their pyjamas were removed and lost amongst the bedding. John eventually kissed his way down Sherlock’s chest and then pressed the softest, lightest kisses all over Sherlock’s stomach. Sherlock blinked at the ceiling. He appreciated what John was doing, but he found himself oddly emotional about it and he wasn’t sure if he liked that.   
  
“I love you,” John whispered into Sherlock’s belly.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said, resting a hand on John’s shoulder, “Come on.” Sherlock guided John away and then turned over, getting on his hands and knees. “Come on,” he said again.  
  
“Yeah, alright,” John said, placing a kiss at the base of Sherlock’s spine before grabbing the lube.  
  
John prepared Sherlock gently and thoroughly, checking all the while that Sherlock was fine. It was driving Sherlock crazy, being treated so preciously.  
  
“John!” Sherlock eventually snapped, “I do _like_ sex, you know. Stop treating me like I’m some sort of trauma victim!”  
  
Sherlock looked at John over his shoulder. John was frowning but it quickly morphed into acceptance.   
  
“Okay, okay,” John said, pulled his fingers out of Sherlock and rolling on a condom. “You ready?” He asked.  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock hissed.  
  
John lined himself up and pushed slowly in, clearly being careful. As soon as Sherlock adjusted he thrust his hips back, causing John to sink further in. John gasped as he bottomed out. Sherlock knew John bit back an admonishment and smiled to himself when John gripped his hips and started thrusting. Sherlock relaxed into it, tension draining from him as he finally felt John inside him after such a long time.  
  
They rocked together, neither fast nor slow, but a steady pace that was easy to maintain and didn’t tease too much. It was brilliant, but Sherlock couldn’t help but feel that something was missing. But John, clever, fantastic John, was already setting about correcting that, pulling Sherlock up so that he was sitting in John’s lap rather than on all fours. Then John’s arms wrapped around him and his lips were at Sherlock’s neck and _yes_ finally Sherlock felt it, that connection that they had. That sex wasn’t just sex for them, it could be love, as it was now, or excitement after a case, or affirmation or care or concern, but it was never just about an orgasm, a substitute for your own hand.  
  
Sherlock could feel John all around him, inside of him. He could smell him on the sheets, on Sherlock’s own skin. His lips were soft on Sherlock’s neck but the stubble on his cheeks and chin scratched deliciously, making something hot coil in Sherlock’s groin.  
  
He was possessed by John and he possessed John. Because it was Sherlock who held John too, his hands clasping John’s hands, his legs on either side of John’s legs, John’s cock in _his_ arse. But most importantly he held John’s heart in his hand just as John held Sherlock’s. They could destroy each other, and sometimes the thought terrified Sherlock and he wasn’t sure if it frightened him more that John might hurt him or that he might hurt John. But most of the time it elated him, made him feel equally powerful and humble. It takes trust to let someone so close, and Sherlock is beyond pleased to know that he trusts John.  
  
They’re panting now, John and Sherlock together and John brought a hand to Sherlock’s cock and wrapped it around him, gripping him tightly. Sherlock moaned and clenched around John and John echoed him.  
  
“I’m close,” Sherlock whispered, feeling his orgasm approaching fast as he said it, gripping John’s hand that was still wrapped around his chest.  
  
“Yes,” John said breathlessly, “Me too.”  
  
John pumped his fist over Sherlock’s cock once, twice, three times and then Sherlock was coming, head thrown back onto John’s shoulder, hips jerking upwards as he came over his stomach and John’s hand and then John was moaning Sherlock’s ear, thrusting into Sherlock, his orgasm following Sherlock’s almost instantly.   
  
They stayed connected for a while, both regaining their breath and allowing their heartbeats to slow, but soon John was growing soft and had to pull out to keep the condom from slipping off and Sherlock realised that his legs were cramping.  
  
Sherlock stretched out happily while John took care of the condom. John came back with a warm, wet cloth and cleaned Sherlock off, chuckling slightly when he Sherlock jerked involuntarily as he softly wiped Sherlock’s penis. Once done he joined Sherlock on the bed and wrapped himself around Sherlock, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock could feel John smile against him.  
  
+  
  
Sherlock had been having a good run of it lately, nothing beyond a bit of uncomfortableness and bloating. It was odd how no matter how long Sherlock had had IBS, if there were a few days where he wasn’t feeling absolutely rotten a tiny glimmer of hope appeared that he would continue to feel better. Or perhaps hope wasn’t the right word, but rather unreasonable want. There was always a silent plea to his nervous system for just one more day where he can pretend to be normal, pretend that the food he doesn't eat is out of choice rather than necessity. But it always came to an end; it’s a brief respite at best.  
  
It started just after breakfast, the cramping low in his abdomen. Sherlock tried to ignore it but the pain only intensified and with it came a sense of urgency that sent him running for the loo. The pain that Sherlock experienced then was some of the worst he’d ever had. Not that the human brain was well equipped to remember and compare pain. The cramps seemed to get worse and worse. He sat doubled over, the pain making his nose run and his eyes water. Not crying because he was emotional, it was a physical response, but it was a close thing as the pain just didn't let up. It was excruciating. Sherlock felt his skin prickle and his vision blur. He tried to breathe through the pain, deep breaths through his nose, his teeth clenched. Nothing seemed to work. It was making him nauseous now and while Sherlock was fairly sure he wouldn’t actually vomit, his contingency plan was to aim for the sink next to him.   
  
Finally the pain abated somewhat. It was still severe, but at least Sherlock could see clearly again. He eventually made his way back into the bedroom and curled up on the bed. He felt shaky and absolutely wretched. A few moments later John came in.  
  
“Is it a bad one?” John asked, face awash with concern.  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
“I’m sorry,” John said, sounding sad. “Have you taken anything yet?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock answered, voice a little scratchy.  
  
“Alright, I’ll get them then,” John said, heading to the bathroom.  
  
He set the pills on the bedside table and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. He came back with a hot bag as well, warmed in the microwave. Sherlock sat up to take the pills and then lay back down, hot bag resting low on his abdomen.   
  
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” John asked.  
  
“No, thank you,” Sherlock said, closing his eyes, trying to find a place in his mind where there was less pain.  
  
He felt John get into the bed beside him but didn’t flinch as he normally would have, John had learnt now that cuddling Sherlock when he was that sore was a bad idea. It made Sherlock feel far too hemmed in, he needed to be free to get up and go to the loo quickly. But John’s presence alone was comforting.  
  
“Shall I read to you?” John asked. It was a special indulgence they left for when Sherlock was feeling particularly bad. Having John with him when the flare-up was that bad was great, but being hovered over could feel a bit oppressive. John reading to Sherlock was a perfect way for John to be around and supportive without overbearing.   
  
“Please,” Sherlock answered.  
  
There was a bit of shuffling and then John started reading.  
  
“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole…”  
  
Sherlock already felt himself relaxing, John’s voice washing over him. John read for a while, happily stopping when Sherlock had to get up and go to the loo, continuing reading when Sherlock came back without comment. Eventually Sherlock’s meds kicked in and the pain lessened enough for him to fall asleep.  
  
Sherlock awoke sometime later. He felt a lot better, but nowhere near healthy for the time being. His stomach muscles felt bruised from the cramps. Getting up, he found John in the living room.  
  
“Sherlock,” John said with a smile, “How are you feeling?”  
  
“Better,” Sherlock said. And John understood that better didn’t mean well.  
  
“Lestrade called while you were asleep. I told him you weren’t available but asked him to send the crime scene photos.”  
  
Missing out on a case was probably one of the hardest consequences of his illness for Sherlock, but one thing John insisted on was that Sherlock would look after himself.  
  
“Alright,” Sherlock said, joining John on the couch and resting his head in John’s lap.  
  
John immediately began playing with Sherlock’s hair. It made Sherlock want to purr it felt so blissful.  
  
“Do you think you can eat something?” John asked. It was an effort for Sherlock to focus his mind enough to speak, John’s fingers were so talented.  
  
“Hmm, later,” Sherlock eventually said, “This is nice for now.”  
  
John chuckled, “Okay, but you really should at least drink something soon.”  
  
Sherlock just grunted, which morphed into a moan as John began massaging the base of Sherlock’s skull. He’d get up in a little while; John would make him. He’d want to feed and water Sherlock to prevent dehydration and hunger pains. Sherlock would grumble but do as he was told and maybe later he’d try and coax John back into bed and make him play with Sherlock’s hair some more. Yes, that sounded perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> I've based Sherlock's symptoms on my own, but they are by no means the be all and end all of IBS.


End file.
